Nad-ned Nad-ned

Dog Days

2011-08-05T12:55:00.016+03:00

"Dog Days" are the hottest, most sultry days of summer...usually fall[ing] between early July and early September... Dog Days can also define a time period or event that is very hot or stagnant...

[In ancient Rome] Dog Days were popularly believed to be an evil time "when the seas boiled, wine turned sour, Quinto raged in anger, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid, causing to man burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies" according to Brady’s Clavis Calendarium, 1813. (Wikipedia)

These are days of tragedy and grief. Syria is in chaos, as the government ravages its people. Floods continue to pound Southern Africa, while in the East children are dying of draught. The Greek economic crisis threatens all of Europe, and fills its own citizens with despair. Growing unemployment, inconsistent health care coverage and budgetary wars threaten the health, and the homes, of millions of Americans. Our own nation's ongoing anger at inaccessible housing has erupted into demonstrations and tent cities. And this morning I awoke to learn that Y, the sweet, strong and healthy 25-year-old son of friends from my teen years, collapsed yesterday -- inexplicably -- of a heart attack. In a few hours from now he will be buried in a Southern California cemetery.

It must be human nature, that among the unfathomable grief on faceless human beings around the world, one young man's death has hit me so hard.

I haven't seen Y since he was a child, but throughout my teenage years, his parents taught me a formative lesson in true hospitality. Time and geography have led me to lose immediate touch with the family for the past few years, though I've thought of them often. I remember his deep dark eyes, his energy, and his siblings. S, his older sister, is a talented writer while younger sister E was always a bright and energetic spark. Together, they were three of the most beautiful, talented, well-rounded and mature children I have encountered. Now they are only two. They did not have to say goodbye.

* * * * *

A few days ago, I thought I was having a bad week. Our beautiful and affectionate cat, barely out of kittenhood, was cruelly mauled to death in the street by neighborhood dogs, most likely ones owned by irresponsible neighbors. In the fallout, the neighborly high following our family's celebration from last month collapsed like a blown-out mine of precious metals; sadness and anger took its place. Much thought, and a carefully-worded neighborhood email followed, whereby I took our dog-owning neighbors to task -- not by name -- and was rewarded with both words of support, and the inevitable rejoinders of denial.

For a few days, the stressful burden of ill will and mutual suspicion pretty much outstripped the sorrow of losing our lovely little feline. But, I thought, Ahhh, such are The Nine Days. "כפרה עליך" (kaPAra aLAyich) as they say. An atonement for past errors, and a gentle reminder to treasure the good things. Our fate is not in our hands.

Now I imagine the family, waking to a morning with no Y, and another, and another. I picture them gathered together, enveloped by their community, crying out in despair, with shock and disbelief filling every corner of the house.

* * * * *

A few months back I was in class on a minor fast day -- Asara b'Tevet -- and my teacher, a convert to Judaism, remarked,

You know, this religion is so fixed on depression. Why do we need so many fast days? Why can't we be adding more holidays and celebrations instead? It's not good for us...

I imagine he knows a thing or two about depressed peoplehood, having both African- and Native American roots. When I think of two nations with more than their share of calamity and maltreatment, these two come to mind.

Thing is, I was kind of torn. On the one hand, he's right. Why do we insist on indulging in sorrow, guilt and mourning, year after year, four times a year, commemorating events some of which are so historically obsolete as to be almost ridiculous. Why, in fact, should we keep Asara b'Tevet on the books, when it commemorates [the beginning of] the destruction of a Temple -- the First Temple -- that has since been both rebuilt and re-destroyed?!

It is easy, even natural, to side with the thinking that suggests this type of mourning is no longer in step with our national timeline. Maybe such harping on the negative even weakens our collective conscience, at a time when we need to be investing all our emotional energies into increasing our sense of resilience. Can wallowing in our collective sorrow really help us?

On the other hand, we've harbor a tendency to hang on to our traditions, obsolete as they might seem, and for the most part this does us more good than harm.

* * * * *

Either way, Tisha b'Av stands apart from the four minor fasts. We don't just grab one day, midyear, and assign it historical importance, long since superseded by subsequent national events. We enter a process of reverse-mourning, and we give ourselves nearly a month to do it, scraping away, little by little, at our every-day comforts until we come to feel some sense of loss.

And yet, despite all these collective efforts, I know I am not alone in saying that most years, it's a real challenge to really make the loss feel tangible. No Temple? No big deal. We've gone without that for nearly two millennia. As for the victims -- the previous generations who died at the hands of the Assyrians, the Greeks, the Romans -- they'd all be long gone by now in any event. How can I learn to feel that loss deeply and personally?

We don't fool ourselves either -- as mourning goes, this is not exactly the Real Deal. Unlike individual mourners, physically demarcated and emotionally isolated from their visitors, on Tisha b'Av we all sit together on the floor, reading out Lamentations for all to hear. When Tisha b'Av ends, we don't isolate ourselves, avoiding haircuts and new clothes and parties. We resume our lives, since we have not, in fact, just lost a mother, a child, a brother.

Unless, G-d forbid, we have.

This Tisha b'Av I will continue struggle, as I do every year, to make our ancient national losses feel personal. But this year, I know, this personally-felt loss will echo the national tragedy it truly is.

May the family be comforted among the mourners of Tzion and Jerusalem.

Keep the balance,

ALN

See a previous post on prophets & the Three Weeks.

Nationalism on Their Young Minds

2011-07-27T06:58:00.005+03:00

Mommy, I wish I know all the languages. Then I could understand everyone. A brief pause, a puzzled look. And a question: Mommy! am I Israeli or American?

Just when I'm thinking Blondini Boy -- all six years of him -- only has Playmobil and Chaos Faction2 on his mind.

Even now I'm not sure exactly what he was after. Did our recent international influx of family visitors spark geographic, or perhaps linguistic, confusion? Was the very concept of multiple citizenship at odds with his developmental stage and notable tendency toward concrete thinking? Or was I merely underestimating his latent capability for immature existential musings?

I told BBoy he was definitely Israeli, having been born and lived his entire life here in Israel. I emphasized that he was also part American -- and part British, by virtue of his parentage (just to further confuse things), following up with a mandatory footnote, that it is possible to be several things at once, even while you can only live in one place at a time.

He accepted all of that. In other words, I got off easy.

Flash forward, to last Tuesday. J, my work colleague and close friend for over a decade, has rightly insisted that if we don't get ourselves together this week, our breakfast out will have to wait another month until after Ramaddan.

We have a lot to talk about, now that each of us has taken the year off work, to study and recharge....we've missed an awful lot of lunchtime chit-chat. Beyond our common work interests, our kids are of similar ages, and so there are mutual updates and parental wisdom to share, conundrums to analyze and discuss.

I pick up J at her home and forty minutes later we are walking the streets of Jerusalem's historic German Colony heading for my favorite cafe. Once seated, I apologize for having dragged her into such an American venue, but then imagine that for her, being a minority here among the Americans might just be more comfortable.

As always, our conversation tends toward education -- our own studies, the kids' schools -- and our personal and childrearing dilemmas. Her children attend private schools, one secular modeled on the American public school system, the other French Christian with a Muslim majority student body. (Her kids already speak four languages between the two of them).

Together we review pros and cons of separate-sex education, secular education, multi-lingual education, the Education Ministry. Her approach toward nondenominational school prayer comes up, as does my [livid] reaction to my daughter's science teacher's refusal to teach Darwinism because "it conflicts with the Torah" (along with the school principal's support of such behavior on the grounds that "teaching evolution might confuse the girls' spiritual development." (Another time). As always, we found a common interest, and common ground, in every topic.

(For many years J and I worked together in the same department, and from an early stage we began planning our group lesson plans together. I always felt at ease, knowing that her translation of my words would come across exactly as I meant it. If you've ever worked through a translator, you'll understand why this is not something to be taken for granted).

Now here I was, telling J about BBoy's nationality question. Turns out her daughter L, age 8, had recently popped an even bigger one: Mama, do we live in Israel or Palestine?

Hmmm.

J answered in Talmudic style, a question for a question. What do you think? Do we live in Israel or Palestine? L thought about it and answered, Palestine, because everyone here speaks Arabic.

J took a deep breath. Then in a brilliant Uncharted Parenting move, J pulled out a map.

I began to describe, place by place, the areas of Arab settlement, and of Jewish settlement. I explained that there had been one war, and then another, and so things shifted, and that, more recently, the Jewish areas expanded until some of them ran into the Arab ones. I pointed out places that were under Israel's jurisdiction ("Israel"), and places supervised by the PA ("Palestine").

Then she repeated L's own question back at her: Where do you think we live? T concluded that she lives in Israel, but goes to school in Palestine (her school is in East Jerusalem).

Put politics aside, as most eight-year-olds tend to do, and this ends up being a pretty precise answer.

I probably don't need to point out the obvious: J lives in two worlds that don't always fit together. She is proud of her Muslim-Arab heritage, proud her family has lived where it has for over ten generations. Yet she appreciates all the good things her state has to offer -- the opportunities, the education, the freedom. J loves Judaism and completed a bagrut in תנ"ך (Bible) and תושב"ע (the Oral Law) and probably knows more about them than I do. Yet if she's at work during the siren on Yom haZikaron (Memorial Day) she finds a private corner in which to sit, so as not to feel she is betraying one part of herself at the expense of the other.

I don't judge J for all of that. I embrace her for trying to find that ephemeral middle ground between sensitivity and dignity, assimilation and self preservation. (I'm trying to find it too, only this time, for the first time, I'm of the majority). Over the years, our parallel perspectives as minority citizens, searching for the common ground, have blessed our friendship with a mutual understanding neither of us has found too easily elsewhere.

J, have a meaningful Ramaddan.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Next up: Natural resource privatization issues, out of the mouths of babes.

It Takes A Village, a Family, and A Whole Lotta Insanity

2011-07-26T16:53:00.015+03:00

(That almost rhymes).

Won't make excuses, except for this: Took a year off.

Literally. Took the year off work, off blogging. Returned to the student life and studied something entirely different. No education, no therapy. No hospital.

Turns out, studying midlife is not studying at 19. No night-after-night-awake-until-2am. No running to the library whenever I darn feel like it. Elder Princeski, Always the Imp and

Blondini Boy (who, incidentally, has grown out of those blond curls) need me to look up from those books once in awhile. They can't be expected to understand what's so exciting about all the fine print piling up on the dining table. Even if colorful maps are sometimes involved.

And then, there was the recent Coming of Age Celebration, aka the Bat Mitzvah. (Because we all know how a twelve-year-old is, um, practically an adult. Never mind).

By now a majority of the neighbors have hosted one or more of these events, and this

is what stands out: The child's parents stand up and -- along with happily fawning over their child, and thanking everybody for coming -- praise the community at great lengths, for making the event a reality. It always sounded kind of exaggerated, and I couldn't understand what the big deal was.

Now I really do get it. Elder P & I had this vision, to celebrate at home with a kind of garden-block-party, and my neighbors did every imaginable task to make this thing a reality. An abridged list:

Helping Elder P plan a special Bat Mitzvah tefilla. Sitting with me to plan out the menu, the shopping list, the time table, the program. Hosting our family for a relaxing Shabbat lunch the week before the event. Lending hotplates and water kettles, projector lights and electricity cables. Lending two hours at night, and again the next day -- in the blazing sun --to help That Guy install those lights and electricity cables.

(Pause for breath). Approaching neighbors and asking them to lend all the above (& more), then delivering it to our doorstep. Permitting us to close off the street for the evening. Making salads and fruit plates. Translating and printing Elder P's talk into English so our family could enjoy it. Going out -- at the last minute -- to pick up the food. Taking down the signs after the event (thank you, whoever you are!). Moral support. I know there's more, but I've already forgotten.

One of my neighbors has actually opened a Gama"ch in memory of her father z"l, lending out serving dishes, tablecloths, candlesticks and more so that her neighbors can hold events at home. She came two hours beforehand and set up all the tables, too. What a huge help.

What goes around also comes around. By purchasing our drinks at the makolet (local grocery store) instead of the [less expensive] chain supermarket, we received an offer to store the drinks in his jumbo-fridge until right before the party.

We hired one neighbor to make high-end

desserts, giving her much-needed publicity (and the desserts were fantastic! If you want her number, drop me a line). Another neighbor, all of fifteen years old, is a professional-grade hair stylist who, as you can see, turned Elder P into a true Princess.

E, the son-in-law of friends and a young father raising two young kids while growing his new photography business, was hired to take pictures. We employed yet a fourth friend to provide the entertainment, including individually tailored instruction for the kids and a funny & original juggling performance for all our guests. (Elder P loves juggling, and this was a special surprise in her honor). Three neighborhood teens were hired as kitchen managers and waitresses, and they worked.

We love having such talented friends, and being able to give them our business at such a happy occasion.

And then, there were my parents. The morning of, I sent them a fourteen-item list, Which of these could you help with?, expecting them to chose two or three. They choose ten, and then ran around schlepping stuff from late afternoon until early evening when the party began.

And yes, it was worth it! Elder P had the time of her life, so did the neighbors, and I'm thankful. בשמחות!

Keep the balance,

ALN

Don't Worry, The Blogosphere Is Behind You

2010-11-07T20:50:00.006+02:00

RivkA's death has really driven home a point. Yes, the blogosphere really is a community. Of friends, compatriots, supporters, rivals, and everything in between.

On Friday at her shiva -- how odd, and empty, to be in RivkA's home, without her there! -- this topic came up in discussion with her mother and father. Like my own parents, they could not understand at first what would possess a person to write (and especially in RivkA's case, so openly and personally) to a vitual audience, "somewhere out there." After a time, they came to appreciate the regular updates, her shared thoughts, and especially, her very real blogosphere friends.

In RivkA's case, she was a source of information and inspiration to many, many people. Her writing brought people together. As I told her mother on Friday, whenever I read RivkA's blog, I felt the acute presence of others reading alongside me, a tangible community of supporters and friends.

This afternoon I had one of those -- dare I say it -- "Israeli" experiences... and there was Treppenwitz, right there behind me. You can read his whole piece here (recommended), but meanwhile, here's the the part that hit home:

Sadly, when faced with an immigrant making a formal complaint about a perceived insult (even when the insult can't possibly be open to perception and/or interpretation), the default response of many people in this country is, "You must not have understood...", or "That was not my intention...".
This is doubly frustrating for a non-native Hebrew speaker because even in cases where the insult is so glaring as to be beyond misinterpretation, the immigrant is often expected to feign difficulty with the language in order to allow the insulter to climb down from their tree and save face.

Ahh, so true, I nodded as I read along. And so sad, so frustrating. We've all felt this at some point, but for me today's experience took the cake. For the first time in a long time, I felt a tinge of regret for having moved here.

Here I was, standing in front (underneath, really -- it was cranked up on the repair lift) of my decade-old Beloved Renault, the recent victim of an unfortunate but -- thank God -- harmless accident,* with the insurance assessor trying to convince me that he had not listed the obvious damage to the ABS on the insurance claim because I hadn't initially reported it (I had) and maybe I hadn't understood him properly.

Oh uh, Mister Assessor. Now you've done it. Deep breath, short pause. Think of Treppenwitz, and Rev Up Your Engines.

I let the assessor have it. With a capital IT: Don't you dare pull that one. I understood you perfectly. And you know it.

He yelled, I countered (two rounds). He relented. I got the repair approved.

Thank you, David Bogner, for reminding me that I do understand. Perfectly.

Keep the balance,

ALN

* Wouldn't ya know it? Two days prior to the accident, I'd signed on a trade-in deal to have someone pay me to take the Beloved Renault off my hands. Murphy's Law, still valid. Or maybe just Freud. Oy.

Goodbye, Our Incredible Friend

2010-10-30T19:16:00.014+02:00

RivkA.....

We all knew it would happen. Despite your consistently high spirits, your infectious optimism, your belief that giving up was not an option.

This was true long before your diagnosis, and all the more so since.

Who else would manage to turn a course of chemotherapy into a weekly opportunity to meet old friends for a drink? Or continue her job as a swim instructor, while on chemo, because it rejuvenated her? Or take the time each and every week to reach out to her hundreds

(thousands?!) of friends, family, readers and fans.

Like any blogger, I am usually a person of words. Now, it seems, there is nothing to say.... except to ask Why?

The question only echoes back darkly, as I think of your beautiful kids, your supportive husband, continuing on without you. You made it quite clear: Pity is not your way, and faith is always the answer. Oh, to have that kind of clarity!

We were supposed to get together and paint.... just the idea got both of us so excited! It was you, RivkA, who inspired me to write. Now, after nearly a year away from this blog, your death has inspired me to return. You had that kind of strength, encouraging people to do their best, be themselves, reach their goals, believe in God, and tell it like it is.

RivkA, you're gone. We miss you horribly. But know this: Your love and enthusiasm are here to stay.

רבקה בת ישעיה, לכי בשלום.

ALN

Photo credits go to That Guy I Married, who succeeded in capturing RivkA's energy and enthusiasm for the camera, at her daughter A's bat mitzvah last June.

Do Good to Feel Good, Part II

2009-12-03T09:00:00.004+02:00

Now I'd like to play a couple rounds of Devil's Advocate.

Let's put it on the table. Is there such thing as too much giving? After all, some of us are already helping people. All. The. Time.

We volunteer at the retirement home, we bake for the neighbors. Perhaps we run a little NPO on the side that distributes funds and clothing, or join every other community hesed committee, or run off to a wedding hall in the middle of the night to pick up and distribute the leftover food.

Or maybe we do some or all of the above, PLUS we've found our life's calling in one of those pointedly-named Helping Professions --as a social worker, therapist, nurse or charity office manager. What could be better? We are assured an opportunity to help others, every day, and often in the most moving and meaningful ways. We take care of others' bodies and souls. We sooth mental anguish and relieve financial burdens, advocate for the disenfranchised and restore human dignity. We do all of this without pitying or patronizing.

So is there such thing as helping too much? We love our life's work because it is life-giving, meaningful, significant. We believe our professional role is right and yes, a kind of moral obligation. But we often resent the conditions: Low pay, little recognition, case overload, stressful work environment.

I'm thinking about yet another phenomenon. How do you do it, how can you work here, with such sick kids? someone will query in admiration. Kol haKavod (Bravo!), that's amazing! They don't get it. I can do this work because love this work, and when I'm doing it, my life feels meaningful and significant.

The problem comes later, when I get home. Sometimes it hits me, how sick those kids really are, and I am exhausted. Weighing me down are all the patients I didn't have time to work with. The parents I didn't get back to. That uncomfortable exchange with a short-tempered staff member. The feeling of being constantly on call -- encouraging, empathic, organized and authoritative -- but not too authoritative. These things can all but wash out the day's many successes.

Worse, I often find myself unable to regroup and focus by the time I've finished my commute home. My own kids need me. They need someone to give them lunch and watch their gymnastics practice and blows their noses and help with their math homework. They don't feel my own need to go to the bathroom and then sit down for five minutes, alone, over a hot drink. Whatever went on in my day until now is completely irrelevant. They expect focused, energetic Mommy, ready to go and full speed ahead.

The work itself is not the problem, it's maintaining my strength to give and give, all morning and afternoon, and then give again into the evening. It's keeping up the required enthusiasm at home to do all the day-to-day tasks, with the patience my kids deserve from me.

Sometimes I fantasize leaving for a well-compensated, "normal" office job, or locking myself away in my studio, "arting" around all day. I imagine opening a small craft business, or private therapy work with a limited number of clients. But getting down to it, I know I would only do such a thing if I were to reach the conclusion that the price had gotten too high, that I could no longer keep up both ends of the giving spectrum, and that giving at work was always at the expense of giving at home.

And here's where I have to admit it. For all its difficulties, hospital work gives me a sense of status and accomplishment that, for whatever reason, I cannot always seem to muster at home. Maybe that's the fallout for some of us girls who grew up in the Seventies on Sesame Street and Free to Be... You and Me. Or maybe it's just that at work, I'm an experienced professional, a figure of authority, a source of knowledge and understanding, while at home, I'm "just" Mom.

Their only Mom. Full speed ahead.

Keep the balance,

ALN

____

For more on why we help one another, this is another interesting NYT piece, especially the part about the role of the sclera (whites of the eyes) in human altruistic behavior.

Do Good to Feel Good, Part I

2009-12-03T08:01:00.002+02:00

Here it is (again), this time via the NYT: Scientific evidence that giving works.

And let's face it, we know this. We all know it, from the inside. Giving promotes health. Thinking about others promotes health. (Thanks again, Prof K, for your insightful reminder).

The article's examples there are numerous. Here's a personal favorite:

An array of studies have documented this effect. In one, a 2002 Boston College study, researchers found that patients with chronic pain fared better when they counseled other pain patients, experiencing less depression, intense pain and disability.

Anyone who has been chronically ill, or who has spent time among the chronically ill, will readily note that a sick person does not want to be the focus of people's help and attention all the time; she wants to listen to others and be there for them. In other words, she wants to feel normal, and being able to help others restores our sense of normalcy.

Unless you're a celebrity, being the constant focus of others is not a normal state of existence. I'm not convinced it does much good for celebrities either, with their constant complaints of telephoto lenses sneaking ou from behind the trash cans, and all those pop songs lamenting the paparazzi. But heck, it's a living.

Turns out that being stuck in your own misery can lead to somatic harm.

By contrast, being self-centered may be damaging to health. In one study of 150 heart patients, researchers found that people in the study who had more “self-references” (those who talked about themselves at length or used more first-person pronouns) had more severe heart disease and did worse on treadmill tests.

I believe it.

I don't usually do this, honest, but I'm even going out on a limb and referencing Dennis Prager's take on happiness, flippant as it sounds, since I think he's got something too.

(I do take issue with his use of the term moral obligation. I don't usually view the use of antiperspirant as a moral obligation either.... a social obligation, maybe, but moral? An exception might be when working with people, such as those on chemo, who may be exceedingly disturbed or nauseated by strong smells. And on Egged buses during the summer months -- OK, that might just be a moral obligation).

Call it CBT, call it common sense, call it a serotonin-inspired warm fuzzy feeling -- the evidence has long been out there. Actions determine mood, and not the other way round.

Keep the balance,

ALN

"I'm the Oldest Person I Know."

2009-12-01T18:59:00.009+02:00

I'm 95 years old, and you know what? That's old.

I'm the oldest person I know.

That's Grandma. As a kid, I can't say we got along. There were some strong opinions involved, some -- shall we say -- incidents. Like the time she called my mother from 100 miles away insisting that we wear sweaters "because it's cold over here." Or the time she entered my room while I was away and straightened it up "just a bit." I wanted to kill her.

Grandma has always held strong opinions about everything. She was into raw foods and organic produce long before the rest of California discovered them. She firmly believed, and continues to believe, that fluoridated water is evil reincarnate, and that women who do not make efforts to "look smart," (that is, dress well and apply make-up) are doing humanity some sort of general disservice.

Through the years, her letter-writing has had me in stitches. There's the time I wrote her from summer camp to report on my recent swimming lessons, and received a reply that she, too, was learning to swim. At age 70. "But," she confided, "I don't like to put my face in the water." (I could relate to that).

And not one of my fellow campmates received, as I did, letters signed with the valuable but ill-timed advice, "Remember to eat lots of organic lettuce!" I neglected to return her counsel with the sad but true reality that at camp we were lucky to get some limp iceberg with our suspiciously-tinted beef patties and soggy fries.

This year, my grandmother is, as she puts it, "really feeling my age." Everything is a process; getting dressed, preparing meals, even -- I assume -- going to the bathroom, although this has yet to come up in conversation. A couple of months back she fell down in her kitchen and, in typical Grandma style, refused to tell anyone about it for fear she'd be dragged to the hospital for endless tests (eventually that is exactly what happened). She's okay now, having rested at home for a short time, after which she systematically rejected the help of every home care nurse and social worker available.

During her recuperation she refused to go outside, for fear she would be spotted using a walker by one of her fellow retirement community-neighbors in her, and subsequently be labeled an old lady.

* * * * *

The other day I asked Grandma for her insights about aging.

Grandma: I don't like old people. Even myself....I have to listen to myself all the time, and I get tired of it. I'm always trying to change things.

Me: What do you mean by that?

G: I would realized what I'm doing, and change what I'm thinking, and reject it.

Me: Like what?

G: Like walking like a duck. I reject it. Like being critical about people. Things really aren't that important, you know? I'm trying to resist some of the earmarks of old people.

I once read in an old copy of New Scientist, a British popular science weekly, that neurological imaging at different stages of life has shown that older people have a tendency to "mellow out" over time, not getting as worked up neurologically about those little things that get under the skin of most the rest of us. In other words, over time, older people gain perspective, at the most basic neurological level.

Sometimes, after a frustrating conversation with Grandma, my family will say, "Oh, she's acting like an stubborn old person again." But I'm not so convinced. No question, she's still stubborn, way beyond the rest of us, but she's always been like that. If anything, she's calmed down a bit over the years.

She's not acting old -- she's acting Grandma.

If you'd asked me as a child whether my grandmother would ever mellow out, I wouldn't have answered positively. I wouldn't describe her as mellow now. Despite her refusal to receive help, for the most part her obstinate behavior benefits her. She's already lost some of her mobility, much of her eyesight, and most of her friends to old age. But when she tells me she's gained a new perspective on herself and others, I believe her. She just wants her body, and her life, to stay just the way they are. Don't we all?

(Get to know Grandma a bit better in Imagine the Alternatives and At Least I Can Explain Two Tin Cans).

Keep the balance,

ALN

Long Overdue -- A Day in Their Life

2009-11-29T21:40:00.007+02:00

(This piece is from back in August. My apologizes for the lengthy post gap, and my thanks to you, loyal readers, for bearing with me).

When in London, we like to visit friends, and one family in particular who we're pretty sure we won't be able to see on our side of the world, since they rarely travel outside of England.

Their first-born, D, is a handsome, dark-haired boy with huge brown eyes, who came into the world with an exceedingly rare condition that has left his mind stranded in early infancy, even as his body continues to grow. On our last visit, when D was five, they shared with us one of his recent accomplishments -- reaching forward to push a large button on a musical toy. Now he is seven and he is much the same, only bigger and heavier.

Our time with them this afternoon was brief, which was really too bad, but during that two-hour visit I began to understand a little more about a few aspects of their lives. Here are some of the "simple" things, things I'd barely thought about before now.

Recycling. I offered to take a couple of glass bottles out to the curbside bins, and casually remarked that I wished Israel also had a curbside recycling program. Our friend, D's mother, pointed out that since cardboard was added to their borough's list, only a few months before, their lives had gotten a bit easier. Previously, they disposed of all those carton containers housing D's special feeding and care supplies only by dividing them among their neighbors' waste bins, since London's notoriously strict waste collection laws require that all items fitwithin the bin, or else forgo collection.

Shabbat. As D's body grows, he gains weight but not strength, and his parents can no longer lift him with ease. Several rooms in their house have been fitted with ceiling tracks for an electric hoist system to aid them in day-to-day care for D. But the hoists cannot be operated on Shabbat, nor can they be fitted with a time switch, since their control requires precise adjustments in real time, or D could be crushed. If they exchange the electric hoist for a hydrolic one (their health plan will only fund one), they solve the Shabbat problem but are stuck with an awkward manual one seven days a week. (One potential solution? Ebay...).

Unplanned "surprises." D and his family have known many good days in a row, days in which D can enjoy his classmates' company, bang away on his keyboard, and lie peacefully while his siblings play around him. And then comes the now long-expected unexpected: nonstop seizures that can last through day and night, leaving D exhausted and confused, and his parents feeling exhausted and helpless. It is just awful watching your child suffer, his mother writes me, and D clearly suffers.

Food and drink. D has dysphagia and struggles to swallow. All his liquids must be mixed with starch until they form a paste, to prevent them ending up down his windpipe. All foods must be pulverized, and even then he struggles to consume enough calories, and there are days when he suffers seizures and cannot eat at all. During these times he receives his nutrition via a PEG directly into his stomach, up to four times a day.

A day off. If our friends want to go away for the weekend, or even for the day, they must book hospice care for D in advance. Since hospice costs £400 - 1000 per diem, they must remain within their sponsored allotment of 20 days a year. (Last year it was 30; just another microcosmic fall-out of the market implosion). Twenty days of respite sounds like a lot, until you start to do the math:

One weekend = 3 days of hospice

Since any trip they take requires setting up D at the hospice care (half a day, plus/minus) and picking him up (another half a day), that's nearly one full day, already gone. One short trip abroad would use up half their annual allotment. (And yes, each of them has family abroad).

I haven't even touched on their morning routine --morning time, school travel, bath time, bed time -- since I don't know much about those things. Our conversation touched on other, "regular" issues, like our satisfaction level [medium-to-low] with our respective kids' education systems. (They have other, "normal" children and work hard to make sure these children lead "normal" lives, inasmuch as the siblings of special children live normal lives).

These friends are some of the brightest people I know. They are well-educated, balanced, hard-working, and kind. They have family for moral support, some extra help at home, and a hard-earned familiarity with "the system." But this is their reality, every day, and it is exhausting. Sometimes, when I feel my own exhaustion at the end of a long morning of work and an even longer afternoon of whiny children, I think of them. I don't know how they do it. But they do it.

If, despite the crash, you still have a few shekels / dollars / pounds to spare and would like to donate them to a worthy cause, please consider a respite program such as Shalva, a rehab hospital such as Alyn, or any similar organization -- there are hundreds -- you feel is worthwhile.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Opening Up

2009-09-26T23:44:00.010+03:00

Took a too-long blog break -- this has part of my excuse. Just jump there, and jump back -- it'll only take a second. As for the rest, we have a lot of catching up to do.

Meanwhile, here we are again, 24-hour countdown to Yom Kippur, the Gates of Heaven are nearly open, and with all its good timing, the Night-Blooming Cereus is, as well.

Once a year, about nine p.m., it shares its beauty with its nocturnal compatriots, and just three hours previous to this writing, here it is:

(Both photos copyright the family photographer, i.e. That Guy I Married)

Our neighbor L-C was nice enough to give us a call so we wouldn't miss the annual blooming on her front porch.... and by now it has already closed.

(I was impressed at the timing, then did a quick search noted -- with irony -- that a primary association with this flower has something to do with Krishna worship in India. The timing's still pretty cool though, don't you think?)

Just a simple thought, coming into our Day of Repentence. Last week during class break, a fellow student approached me with a question:

Why should I bother fasting again this year? I know that right after Yom Kippur I'm just going back to all the things I usually do -- not keeping Shabbat, and all that. So what good will it do for me to fast?

She is relatively young, in her mid-twenties, and grew up in a religious household, in the religious school system here in Israel. She no longer identifies as a religious person but remains close with her family.

As in keeping with the tradition, I answered her question with a question: What's the connection between not keeping Shabbat next week, and keeping Yom Kippur this week?

I was convinced, without knowing why, that the two are not inherently linked, at least not on every level, but at the time I couldn't explain it in a way that satisfied either of us.

Today, leafing through Al ha-Teshuva, a text based on lectures given by Rabbi Yosef B. Soloveichik, I found a more exact answer. Rav Soloveichik talks a lot about the individual versus the Klal, the collective. While each individual certainly bears responsibility for his or her own actions and atonement process, there is a parallel process that is the jurisdiction the collective, which, according to the Rav, is an entity with an identity in and of itself.

It is up to the individual to consider him or herself a part of Klal Yisrael, and one way to achieve kapara (atonement) on Yom Kippur is to be a part of this collective -- what he calls the "אני קבוצי," "communal I." In his words (my translation):

We identify with the congregation of Israel, are molded and merged into it, we are made one with it -- and through this, we become worthy of the atonement that it [the congregation] is worthy of (p. 77).

He asks whether the atonement of Yom Kippur is that of the individual, or of the collective, and goes on to explain that the answer is, in fact both. The collective gives us a power of atonement, distinct from our individual efforts, and so (as I later wrote my classmate), as long as you consider yourself a part of the community, on whatever level, your fasting along with everyone is still worth something.

גמר חתימה טובה / Gmar Hatima Tova.

May we all be inscribed for life, blessings, health, and new openings leading to new beginnings.

ALN

NOT A HYSTERICAL HEADLINE!

2009-07-19T11:16:00.008+03:00

In a few more days we will overstuff our suitcases and head for home. The kids have been asking, begging, really -- When are we coming home? They miss their friends, and the ease of access to those friends. They miss our animals. So do I.

I am torn. I want to get back to normalcy, to routine -- not that summer vacation is the time for that, but never mind. I miss my friends, our neighbors. Reading all the latest "ideological conversations" (in the words of one neighbor) via community listserv does not quite satisfy.

There are things here I will miss.

The cool weather, and the rain.
Public parks, open farmland, trees.
The convenience of buses, trains, and the Underground.
People who wait patiently while others disembark from buses, trains and the Underground.
The Science Museum, the Natural History Museum, the National Gallery.
Every type of bird in the garden. Squirrels.
Electric sockets with built-in switches.
Trees.

What I will not miss: Histrionic headlines preceding dumb-downed, hyperbolic newspaper pieces that preempt rational analysis and deter all optimism.

There are real reasons for worry here. Swine flu is spreading, a few have died. Thousands are ill but most will recover after a few days and without hospitalization. Newspaper headlines only inflame the panic. So when a young man gone missing in Katoomba, Australia was found alive and healthy after nearly two weeks in the wilderness, I took that as encouraging, hopeful, a reason for national celebration.

Yet a Kew station news poster screamed, "DAD CHASTISES SON FOR HIKING ALONE!" I mean, really. What a lost opportunity. I see this type of thing posted on mortar boards, morning and evening, and think, Hey, Londoners, why do you do it to yourselves? The constant cloud cover isn't enough?

Not much balance there.

ALN

Meetingplace / Marketplace

2009-07-03T12:02:00.008+03:00

The short flight had been uneventful. As we disembark, Blondie Boy waves a casual Shalom to the two youngish ground crewmen assigned to monitor passenger progression from plane to gate. I try to focus his awareness to the idea that from now on, for the next few weeks, he must speak English to those around him. The next day, in the Brent Cross shopping mall, Elder Princeski wonders if we will encounter any Israelis here. My response -- Just keep your ears open! -- is cut short by a mother speaking Hebrew to her two kids as they cross our path toward the escalator.

Brent Cross is a multicultural hub; families from everywhere, kids of all skin tones. Women in robes, dresses, headscarves in a spread of colors both bright and drab. An endless flow of mother tongues, alongside English delivered in multiple cadences. And so many Jews, they barely glance at one another in any attempt for recognition. My own moderate headscarf does not register a perceptible glance from anyone, and I feel a sort of relativity effect, an at-oddness with both the bare-headed, spaghetti strap world on my left, and the thoroughly wrapped opacity on my right. Neither covering, nor lack of one, exposes the ideas and beliefs within the minds around me.

If I were a white Christian male here, I would feel left out, slightly noteworthy, a minority. Perhaps this rainbow effect now means the white majority no longer feels comfortable coming here. Perhaps it no longer exists, or never did.

At home I sometimes joke about retail therapy, the occasional -- and temporary -- pick-me-up for an emotional trying day at work. Abroad, it has already become both a chore, albeit an enjoyable one, and an opportunity. Elder P taking mental notes on the people around her, asking few questions while, I can assume, sitting tight on others which will surface eventually. She's an observant kid, she knows how to make comparisons, and one day soon knowing the answers will become more urgent.

Meanwhile, my headspace is still lingering back at home, ruminating over its own troubled comparisons. If, here, those people wearing head coverings are drawing any suspicion, I cannot feel it, although they themselves might.

The marketplace has always been a meeting place, and no less now than before, among our skylights and window dressings and vast air-conditioned spaces. Retail as the great commons, or commonality. I enjoy being here, and even knowing such a place exists, whether I come to purchase, or to find comfort and captivation in the purchasers.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Have the Answers, But Not Telling (At Least For Now...)

2009-06-15T22:33:00.008+03:00

HH #221 here at Ima on (and off) the Bima.

ProfK brought us a familiar observation here in her comment. We, too, have gotten some really doozy-questions aimed our way during car rides, or alternatively, on our way out the door towards a car ride.

My favorite? A couple years ago our Virgin Guinea Pig mysteriously gave birth. OK, not so mysteriously; unknown to us, she'd been pregnant when we bought her.

Turns out, guinea pig gestation is much longer than that of most rodents and lagomorphs. Compare: hamster gestation is 15 to 18 days, rabbit gestation is about 30 days, while that of the guinea pig can reach 72 days -- that's over two months. The difference becomes clear when you see how guinea pigs come into the world: fully formed, fur-covered, open-eyed, and munching on solids within a day.

So when Elder Princeski called me in happy-hysteria, MOMMY, THERE ARE BABIES IN THE GUINEA PIG CAGE!, naturally this became a source of great excitement.

A few minutes later, it also became a source of great confusion.

Always the Imp (then age 4): Mommy, how could the guinea pig have babies without an Abba?

Me: There must have been an Abba with her in the store, before we bought her, but then we brought her home and it took a long time for the babies to come out.

Always: (Pause for thought). Mommy, how did the babies get inside the mommy?
Me: (Wasn't expecting that one yet). Well... (Stalling for time. She's only four, I mean, really).

Always: Is it true that the doctor puts the baby through the mommy's vulva, into her tummy? (Yes, she already knew one V-word, way back then.)

Me: (To self) Only if the Mommy is married to a doctor.
(To Always) Well, it's something like that. But it's kind of complicated, and you know, we really are supposed to be going out now.

Always (looking me straight in the eye): It's okay, Mommy. You don't have to explain everything. Just tell me the important parts!

Oy vey....

Keep the balance,

ALN

Don't Have the Answers, But Glad You Asked

2009-06-13T22:16:00.005+03:00

The Challenge: Describe your job in one sentence or less.

My Answer: My job is to listen to kids.

OK, so sometimes "listening" comes in the form of watching them draw, or joining them as they play, or helping them surf the net, or just sitting nearby while they read. And, of course, the kids I listen to are sick, or are recovering from being sick, or were sick in the past, or are sick again.

Leave out that last part about the sick kids, and replace what's left with the additional cleaning, laundry, dishwashing, fetching & carrying, and we've just described the Second Shift, a.k.a. The Home Front.

I admit it: Part of me has been waiting for years for my kids to get a little older, so we could start having some real conversations, the ones that extend beyond "Why can't I have a cookie? But why?!?" It seems that time has arrived, and the questions have been rolling in.

Elder Princeski will be ten soon, and her questions tend to reflect her newly-developing empathy and Theory of Mind. Always the Imp has just turned six, but her line of questioning (once she gets past all those unreasonable demands resulting from her sugar addiction) has always pushed the envelope, amplifying her imp-like attributes.

Yesterday afternoon I decided it was time to euthanize the poor goldfish who, having displayed multiple signs of illness for nearly half a year (and had long since been placed in isolation from his healthier peers), was now showing acute signs of imminent status change.

Elder Princeski took an interest and even assisted. We used an ice-water bath, recommended as the most humane method by Dick Mills in You and Your Aquarium (London: DK), while Always hid herself away until the deed was done. Later, of course, there were thoughts and reflections on the matter, which surfaced today during Shabbat lunch.

Always the Imp: Mommy, when you die, I want to keep the whole house for myself. But I don't need the things inside it, you can give those to somebody else.

Me: [Which Left Field did that one come out of? Oh, maybe it was the fish...] Why? Do you want me to die soon?

Always: Of course not, but when you do, much later, when I'm already big...

Elder Princeski: Mommy, I don't want you to die for a long time... but when you do, I'll keep the things inside the house. I won't need the house itself because I will be married and my husband will buy me a house.

(Short discussion on the topic of religious vs civil inheritance laws.)

The conversation then evolved into a series of questions about Grandma (that's my 95-year-old grandmother -- see here), wondering how much longer she would continue to live, and if she wants to live much longer, and whether, were she to become very sick, dependent, and pain-ridden, she would choose to die (from what she has told me in the past, I wouldn't put it past her).

We did our best to answer all of these clearly and honestly, with equal measures of optimism and realism.

Then there were questions about death itself. What does it feel like?, and Does it hurt? and Do people know they're dying? I told them about the reports I had read on near-death experiences, in which people described feelings of well-being, comfort, and being reunited with lost loved ones. I told them that no one could prove whether these things really happen, but that many people felt and believed that this is what had happened to them.

Throughout this conversation, my internal voice was asking how much of an influence my Day Job was having here on the Home Front. I think about death a lot, because I encounter death a lot, and so it is on my mind -- sometimes at a frequency that surpasses what I would consider to be a level of healthy denial.

I try to keep that to myself, at least around the kids, but as they grow older they develop an awareness of what I do for a living; Elder Princeski has even accompanied me to work events a couple of times. Sometimes they ask questions about work, and while I don't shy away from answering, I try to keep my answers short and to the point.

The thing is, kids know about death. They think about death. They wonder about it, and they have questions. At a certain point, they lose their dog, or their grandfather, or their neighbor, or their parent, and they learn that death can't be avoided.

All of this obligates us to invite their questions, listen to their concerns, and share some answers -- gradually, thoughtfully, and straightforwardly. Which we tried to do this afternoon.

Suppertime brought with it a whole slew of questions, this time about Down Syndrome, its causes and effects. For another time...

Keep the balance,

ALN

Verlyn on the Familiar

2009-06-03T21:06:00.005+03:00

Today's piece is on the geography of familiarity. Here's a taste:

Recently, I’ve been thinking about the geography of familiarity. By that I mean something like a map of my habitat, the paths I travel most often, the places I feel most comfortable, the routines embedded in the rural and urban landscapes I know best. Most days, familiarity seems inherent in the world right around me, but every now and then I remember that it’s really an artifact of consciousness, a form of perception that can be lost, say, in someone with Alzheimer’s. (New York Times online, June 3, 2009)

What can I say.... I'm inspired, yet again. His thoughts speak to my mind and soul. I hope you feel the same.

Thank you yet again, Mr. Klinkenborg, for getting it so right.

ALN

Into Another World

2009-06-03T00:24:00.005+03:00

(If you missed it, see Maybe I Should Write About It).

The view from their living room window -- dry hills interspersed with grasses and low-lying bushes -- was oddly familiar, in that I could have mistaken it for the California of my childhood.

I had parked the car on the street above. There was plenty of parking; most residents in this area don't know how to drive a car and cannot afford one. The early afternoon air was hot and still. The inside car temperature approached that of an oven from the moment I shut off the engine.

I crossed the sidewalk, paused, and headed toward the double flight of stairs. To my left, three middle-aged, dark-skinned men squatted over a flattened carton, dealing cards. The stairs, framed by simple metal railings, abutted a series of dirt-filled, half-meter brick tiers in an uneven stack like some child's haphazard block construction. They led me down to one of a series of dreary dun developments, each four stories high and six living units across, fronted by an empty patch of dusty soil. Most of the buildings carried a rusty sign vainly remarking a municipal-sponsored refurbishment in 1976, and despite this, they all looked as though they had somehow survived five decades or more.

As expected, there were no signs pointing the way toward the house of mourning. The numbering was haphazard and I could not find the right building. In response to my query, an older man placed his hands on my shoulders and literally rotated my body to the right and downward.

His murmuring suggested I had a ways to walk, and the apartment I sought was in fact the last one in the staggered row of developments. As I followed along the row of buildings, there was a smell, of pungent, unfamiliar spice and slightly fermented grains, which seemed to grow in intensity as I approached the entrance.

The door of one of the ground-floor apartments had been left wide open, and the spotless living room floor reflected an image of a hefty woman lounging on her sofa. She jumped in with an answer before I could get the question out. "Where -- ?" "Up on the third floor."

The door was closed and had no markings on or around it, save a mezuzah with a cheap plastic cover. Inside the house, the extended family -- his mother, sister, two brothers, four aunts, three uncles and a cousin -- nearly filled the small living room. His mother had a black mourning cape draped over one shoulder, and as I entered she glanced up, sighed and shifted the cape to her lap, stood, and clung to me. She sat down, sighed, and offered me a chair near the middle of the room. "My heart..."

A foursome of aunts and uncles sat around a coffee table playing cards, throwing each card onto one of four piles with an aggressive THWAP. Somehow, it felt only slightly out of place. His sister poured me a cup of cola, which his mother refilled after every sip I took. She exchanged a few words with her daughter. I was waiting for a translation, some statement about how it was all over, or referring to his time in the hospital. But no.

He had some new clothes, the sister related. They're in G's office. Do you think you can talk to him about getting them back?

Of course. His brother would be needing those clothes, so carefully chosen only two months before.

The mother continued her conversation with an aunt who was sitting across from us, while I talked to the sister and made a few phone calls in an unsuccessful attempt to contact the cable TV representative and ask him to come pick up the cable box which nobody in the household now has a use for.

Sometime later, we exchanged good-byes and I made my way back down three stories, along six dreary buildings, and up two outside flights to street level. I got in my car, drove out of the neighborhood and back into to my infinitely more complex, familiar -- and for now, sadder -- world.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Now I Can Laugh, Too

2009-05-08T13:08:00.009+03:00

A Mentsh Tracht un Gott Lacht* א מענטש טראַכט, און גאָט לאַכט

Friday morning, and the to-do list is pretty long. Shabbat comes in late in the Spring, so that list can include the usual preparations (cooking, cleaning, etc.), plus a lot of the spillover from the week -- several work projects, in this case. I would just get the kids on their ways and get down to work.

As usual, Blondini Boy pulled his wake-up-early-and-refuse-to-go-back-to-sleep number. But something was up. When I gave him his morning squeeze, he pulled away with, No! My tummy hurts.

Since he has been known to neglect that certain daily ritual, I wasn't too worried. I would encourage him to sit on the toilet for a few minutes, and all would be well.

Within ten minutes he was writhing on the sofa. He wouldn't let me touch him. He wanted his bed. He refused to walk upright. His face was pale. I took his temperature -- normal. I tried to feel his abdomen. He screamed in pain and then kept moaning.

Quick internal debate: Do I call ER this second, or first consult a friendly neighborhood physician to confirm I'm not overreacting?

The latter won out. I discovered that our friend G was on call at the hospital (I'd been afraid to call because I didn't want to wake him up after a night shift). He asked a few questions -- Is he walking with difficulty? (Yes). Is he willing to jump up and down? (No) -- and told me not to waste time, bring BB into ER right away. He would meet us there. I threw some clothes and favorite toy vehicles into a bag with my wallet, phone, and hospital ID, and put BB in the car.

On the road, I tried to keep my focus, a vast selection of scary scenarios competing with a the beautiful winding road I know so well from my morning commute. Appendicitis. Peritonitis. I imagined my little boy being called in for emergency surgery after being diagnosed with one of these.

Or worse: Neuroblastoma. Wilm's Tumor. Burkitt's. All those exceedingly rare childhood diseases that my work experience has long since deceived me into believing are common. (They are not).

Back in his car seat, Blondini Boy was looking paler and paler, his eyes nearly closed. The trucks and bicycles that normally grab his attention passed by without remark. My tummy hurts, Mommy, he groaned over and over.

Seven minutes from the hospital, he wanted to stop. Mommy, I have a pee-pee.

You're wearing a diaper, I told him. You can make your pee-pee right now. I hadn't taken the time this morning to change him out of pajamas, and now there was no safe place to stop along the road.

I have a pee-pee, and I want to make my pee-pee in the toilet.

He was insistent; he knew what he needed. We stopped in a parking lot at the entrance to a hiking trail along the road, where I offered a pee-pee in nature as the next-best option to a toilet.

Two liters poured out of him, and that was it. I peered into his strained little face and watched the tension drain away. Does your tummy still hurt? No.

Unconvinced, I pressed his stomach. Here? Here? What about here? (Not a grimace). Jump up and down. (Three jumps). Run over to that tree and look at the birds. (But I don't want to scare them!)

Soon, the color had returned to his face, and we were heading towards home.

Next week we'll be visiting our regular pediatrician to ask whether some organic problem might have gotten BB into this state in the first place. I suspect he'll tell me it's nothing. For now, I am relieved, thankful, and acutely aware of being safe and relaxed at home, as opposed to where we could have been, and still would be, now.

And if something like this every happens again, I'll try to keep some things in mind: Use caution, but try to stay relaxed and focused enough to check the obvious.

* * *

ALN: So tell me, what did we do this morning?

Blondini Boy: This morning?.. We were going to the doctor, and then I made a pee-pee!

* * *

Yah, that pretty much sums it up.

Shabbat Shalom.

ALN

___

* From the Yiddish: A man plans and G-d laughs.

A Room of Everyone's Own

2009-05-06T14:32:00.007+03:00

When thinking hospital, a lot of things come to mind, and not one of them is "privacy."

We are always citing patients' privacy rights -- the subject resurfaced as a welcome reminder in a recent department meeting -- along with the acknowledgement that while everyone acknowledges the value of medical secrecy, standing up to its principles are no easy feat in a small, everyone's-my-cousin environment such as exists in our humble corner of the Middle East.

Then there's the flip side: Where do hospital workers go to preserve privacy -- their own, their colleagues', their patients', their patients' families'?

This morning after a meeting, I returned to my department via the stairs. Between two of the upper floors, a tech staff member was lying against the stairwell wall, coffee in hand, three sections of the newspaper sprawled across several steps and over a chair on the landing. One flight later, a young man -- a volunteer, perhaps, or a pediatric patients' older brother -- had his waterproof tallit / tefillin bag resting, open, just under the handrail along my right side, while he was making his way through shaharit (morning prayers) there on my left.

Yesterday I walked into our department classroom a few minutes into our mid-day break, only to find one of our teachers working with a small patient while colleagues sat drinking coffee across the table.

Aren't you going to take your break now? I asked the her.

She nodded at her pupil with a knowing smile. I'm taking a sort of learning break, she replied, here with H.

I'll be the first to admit it: I'm not the best example. I don't always stop to take a methodical, sit-down-and-close-the-door-behind-you coffee break, and anyway, there aren't too many spaces in the department that provide the right conditions for such an effort. As I've lamented before, I don't have an office. For this reason I can (and have) spend up to ten minutes looking for a semi-private corner of the department to sit down with a staff member, for a conversation of the same length.

So where should we go to hold a private conversation? The archives? A stuffy, windowless security room with little ventilation to counter the stifling odor of multiple files. The chairs in the waiting area across the hall? Patients and staff walk through there freely, always within hearing distance. I would even try the stairwell, but what an echo. No privacy there.

Only one other room option comes to mind. It has a lockable door, but alas, it only seats one...

Keep the balance,

ALN

Iodine Season

2009-05-05T21:49:00.006+03:00

Spring is in the air... speaking of which, many thanks to Gila from My Shrapnel for a great HH #215, and that lovely Julie Andrews song! But I digress...

Bike Season is officially here, so keep the iodine handy. A couple weeks ago I brought what was formerly Elder Princeski's long-outgrown, hot-pink set of wheels into the local bike shop for a tire refurbish, and the guys could barely look up from their wrenches and chains, they were so busy sliming and realigning.

(Slime is, of course, a registered trademark and the brand name of that funky stuff they smear on the inner tubes to make them self-repairing. The bike shop has a huge tank of it sitting on the floor, next to their scattered worktable, and for a few extra shekels they'll apply it to your inner tubes, saving you much sorry later in the season).

The number of first-time bikers on our block -- among them, our own Always the Imp --can appear greater than the total number of children around here. The other afternoon I edged toward our driveway while noting at least a dozen (including a couple of my own) within a three-house stretch, wheeling about like scattering sparrows.

The scene inspired me.

A day or two later, That Guy I Married set off with Elder P to get her a new bike, accompanied by my long-neglected red frame, with its shredded seat and failing gear shifts, in the hopes that a renewed set of wheels would inspire me to re-commit myself (yet again) to some sort of reasonable, enjoyable fitness plan.

I can't speak for the future but so far, so good. I've managed to get myself out on it two days in a row -- if only around the moshav, at this point. Only 28 more days of this and I'll have myself a habit.

Nothing like that burst of speed down a hill, that rush of air across the face, to remind me what every kid worth his weight in helmets already knows. So get out the iodine, and get out there.

The hills are alive...

Keep fit, and keep the balance,

ALN

Finally, Finally, Finally

2009-05-04T17:03:00.010+03:00

Ahh, how I wish I could stick to this writing business -- and all the other things in my life -- with regularity, enthusiasm, and a clear head. I look around in jealousy and wonder at all the regular bloggers, and I know darn well most of them also have lives (Read: families, jobs, friends, hobbies households) that slurp their time down to the last drop.

I owe a big thank you to Ricki's Mom, who tagged me with the Honest Scrap Award nearly a month ago and I'm only getting a response together now. In general, I owe a big thank you to Ricki's Mom because I find her writing interesting, honest, inspirational and empowering, and hers is one of the first blogs I run to when I've fallen out of the blog loop and want to get back on it.

Rules: Ten honest things about me, then pass it on to seven bloggers. Honestly, I dunno about the second part. I wish I had the time to read seven blogs these days... but let's give it a go:

1. I've been through almost every version of vegetarianism that there is (excepting, perhaps, fructarianism, which is just a little overboard for me). Lacto-ovo, lacto, vegan, even juice diets. For the past decade or so, I've come to terms with a lacto-ovo-pescetarian diet. Works for me.

2. I believe in balance. Not a new concept to you, my readers, but how does it manifest in my life? Example: I consider myself an observant Jew, and cover my hair, but usually wear trousers -- as opposed to skirts -- because it's much more comfortable for me, physically and emotionally. (This may be because I did not grow up in a religious household, but then again, maybe it wouldn't have mattered either way).

3. For an American, I use way too many Britishisms in my speech. Probably the influence of That Guy I Married. He's from London. Not his fault.

4. I spent hours of my childhood either up in trees or down among the weeds and bushes. I used to pet the bees I found there.

5. My family is multi-cultural. By this I mean that I have an Indian sister-in-law. I have joined her family in their place of worship (they are Sikh, strict monotheists) and despite the many difficulties and challenges of intermarriage, I feel a certain kinship with them that is hard to explain in words. (And they have the most beautiful clothes -- they have given me several outfits).

6. I love to dance, and I don't mean folk dance. Hip-hop, modern, street dancing. I shut the blinds and open the windows and crank up the MP3 and go nuts. Also while cooking. I get chopped onions & garlic all over the place.

7. Two years ago I decided it was (past) time to start reading in Hebrew. I don't mean signs and menus, I mean books. Novels. Nonfiction. It demands more concentration but -- I know this sounds crazy -- when I read in Hebrew, I get this feeling of the juices flowing in a different area of my brain, and I like it.

8. I am ever grateful to RivkA for getting me started in the blogosphere. Before I read her blog, I hardly knew what a blog was. Once I read hers, I thought -- what a great idea! Now I'll be forced to write, my family will have automatic updates about my life, and I might even develop a modest fan club. All for free. What could be better? (Then I discovered the catch: I actually have to write regularly, and not just think about writing).

9. I work with sick kids all day, of all different ages and cultures and sizes and shapes and intellectual capacities. I've been doing this for quite awhile now, and I think I've got the basics down by now. So why am I always wondering whether I'm doing the right thing with my own kids? It's a mystery.

10. Working with those very sick kids, for so many years has probably skewed my view of life just a bit, in that I tend to view life as a very limited thing, to be cherished and pushed to the fullest, every second. Which is why I am in a constant, sleep-deprived and hypo-caloric state and cannot get enough of what this world has to offer: family, work, hobbies, etc, etc. Just dangle it in front of me, and I will probably try to pack it into my already-bursting schedule.

Which reminds me, I have to go back to studying now (I have an anatomy-physiology exam on Thursday), push Always the Imp along on her bike, make supper, plan a work presentation, and book a trial lesson with the guitar teacher. Among other things.

I really can't do seven right now, but can we settle for Coffee and Chemo, SuperRaizy, Shilo Musings, Here in HP and The Rebbetzin's Husband? You're all it (and if you've already been through a round of this, please forgive me... I'm behind the times).

Keep the balance,

ALN

PS: Mother in Israel -- you too!

Scales are Tipped Down, Way Down, by the PA

2009-03-04T21:55:00.010+02:00

Since beginning pediatric hospital work over a decade ago, I've shown a tendency to divide circumstances -- that is, reasons for hospitalization -- into two artificially neat categories: Man-made, and G-d-made.

Examples of the former include falls from upper-story windows, hot-water burns, and car "accidents." The latter run a spectrum, from "less serious," (i.e. dangerous but curable) illnesses like RSV, Hanoch-Schlein and cellulitis, to acutely life-threatening maladies like Crohn's, SCID, CF, and acute myeloid leukemia.

Believe it or not, in many ways I had a much harder time in Pediatric Surgical, working with kids injured as a result of the "man-made" stuff. Why? I was constantly troubled by the thought that most of the injuries there were preventable; Falls resulting from unsupervised climbs along an unfenced roof edge or an unbarred third-story window. Shabbat kettle burns? See Prof K's posts, here and here, for more on that. (Yes, I've referenced these before, and I'll probably keep doing it until the problem is no more). Car-related injuries? I won't start ranting here about street safety or seat belt use, but please pretend I did.

As for the G-d-made part -- we can't prevent that stuff. It's just not our jurisdiction. We can only try to cure it. And if we cannot cure a child's illness, we can still try to help that child find comfort and meaning until the end.

But now we are stuck in a new situation, where life-threatening, G-d-made circumstances have been further complicated by man-made decisions.

I am, of course, referring to the February 1, 2009 decision of the Palestinian Authority to cease nearly all payments to Israeli hospitals, thereby cutting off hundreds of Palestinian children (and adults) with life-threatening illnesses from the medical care they need.

Let's not turn this situation into another political discussion. Because for me, and so many others, this is not a theoretical situation involving some unnamed, unknown enemy. This is a new reality, where over fifty children, all of which I know personally on one level or another -- some for several years now -- have been given a death sentence by way of a governmental policy of collective medical neglect.

When I let myself think about it, or when circumstances force me to think about this new reality, sadness creeps in and hits me, literally, in the face. Our department is half empty, which for us staff members could be viewed as a glass half-full, since we've been working at a slower pace these past few weeks and can take a few minutes to breathe now and then.

But then someone like A -- a beautiful, bright and sensitive teenage girl whom we have been treating for a leukemia for the past four months -- suddenly shows up in our department with a nearly lethal systemic infection because she no longer had a commitment from the PA to pay for her treatments.

What about all the others? Some of them are in touch with us by phone, while others have been so difficult to contact, it's as if they have disappeared into thin air. All are pleading desperately, crying at the desks of the PA bureaucrats who have the power to make a life-changing decision but choose not to. These officials have claimed they will sponsor parallel treatment in an Egyptian, Jordanian, or even Europe -- anywhere but Israel -- but with very few exceptions, we've yet to encounter evidence that our patients are receiving any treatment whatsoever.

Every once in awhile a rumor flits through the department -- that so-and-so has died of a deadly infection in some PA hospital somewhere. So far these rumors have proven false, but it's only a matter of time before they are not. Chemotherapy protocols are measured in days and hours. A lost week is an acute risk; a lost month, or even a fever, is a death sentence.

If we could treat for free, we would. But we can't, because the funding would come out of our department budget, such that within a month even one patient's treatment would empty the coffers and shut down the department. A few of our staff have even dug into their pockets so that certain individual patients could have this one medical test or that course of life-saving antibiotics. A few miniscule drops into a very deep bucket.

This past Monday we were all relieved to learn that A's family managed to confirm her East Jerusalem resident status, allowing us to continue the treatment that will, most likely, save her life. This morning, the Palestinian Authority's Committee of Medical Exceptions purportedly met to review the list of children requesting funding in to continue treatment in Israeli hospitals for long-term, life-threatening illnesses.

I can only hope that tomorrow morning, all of our lost patients will be knocking down our doors, PA funding commitments in hand.

Keep the balance,

ALN

____

While this situation has affected patients in hospitals throughout the country, for whatever reason most of the (limited) PR refers to Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem. See the NY Times piece here, and the JTA piece here .

We're on a Road to...

2009-03-01T14:24:00.011+02:00

Once in awhile Treppenwitz offers a "tremp" post; that is, a hitchhiking experience that stands out for being unusual, humorous or just plain wacky. I myself don't have many stories to tell since, I'll readily admit, I shy away from picking up hitchhikers. I'm just too scared to let a total stranger into the car, and unfortunately I've heard enough worrisome stories to justify that fear.

But in theory I think it's a lovely idea. As an older teenager / young adult, I depended on others to transport me around this teeny tiny country, and nowadays I wish I felt safe enough to return the favor to society at large

I do feel safe picking up fellow moshav residents, which I often do on my way to work. I leave the house early and at this time of year the sun is up but it's still chilly and these past few days -- hurray! -- rainy. Sometimes it's a high school kid trying to get to school, or an older resident on his way to the local shuk for some shopping. Often as not, it's someone trying to get to the hospital itself, to visit a relative or to keep a medical appointment.

When I pull my car up to the bus stop each morning, most people come up to the window, ask where I'm going, and either reject the ride with a polite "Have a nice drive," or else they hop into the car, and off we go. This morning, though, it was the other type of trempist (hitchhiker), that older, first-generation North-African immigrant Savta-type. I could tell this was going to involve a process, and I stifled a groan.

I know, what's the big deal? I feel extremely grateful to own a (mostly) reliable vehicle, and we're only talking about a few minutes of my time to help a fellow citizen get on with his life. True, it's challenging enough, when it's still dark, to drag myself out of bed and make my way through the sleepy-crazy morning rush, out the door and onto the road, only to have someone waste precious time deciding whether to hitch a ride.

Bottom line? I have to admit it, I have a problem. I hate it when people make me late to work.

So I could see this passenger was going to be a problem. First, standing outside the car with rain streaming in through the now-open window, she has to interview me: Where are you going? How are you getting there? Are you going via the ----- route? No? Why not?

Pause and grimace. Are you sure you aren't going the ---- route? Turns around to her companion, waiting at the bus stop two meters away. Shouts, SHE'S NOT GOING THE ----- ROUTE. SHOULD I GO WITH HER? Pause for discussion. Short argument. Unclear resolution. I yell out through the window, I have to go. Are you coming or not?

Steps back toward the car. Looks back at companion, then back at me. OK, I'll go with you.Opens the back door. Piles in two heavy bags. Slams the door. Opens the front door, sits down with a thud.

Glances at me and remembers -- I'm that crazy woman who insists on using that silly device. Looks down, fumbles with the seat belt. I have a wedding tonight. My sister's daughter. I have to get to the Central Bus Station by ten o'clock, there's a bus that leaves at ten. I'm sleeping over there, at my sister's.

I nod. I'm trying not to lose it, but I'm already running late, I still have to stop and fill up at the gas station, it's pouring with rain, and we've already wasted five minutes discussing route options, as if it's even up to her in the first place.

I have to get to the Central Bus Station, she repeats. The bus station. To catch a bus. To my sister's. Maybe if we see the bus coming up the hill you can just drop me off and I'll get a ride from there to -----. Are you sure you're not going via -----?

We have covered this material before, and so I feel obligated to clarify, more forcefully now, that yes, I'm sure we are traveling the very route I originally specified. Maybe you could just drop me off somewhere along the way, she continues to mumble. Maybe the bus will come by. Meanwhile, my iPod is plugged into the car's speaker system and I am desperately trying to hear Ira Glass introduce Act One of the week's This American Life podcast.

But my passenger does not understand English and treats the sound coming from the speakers as just that -- sound, without meaning -- so she continues this one-way conversation, competing at full volume with the podcast.

So, you're going to work? Oh, you speak English. I know some people who speak English. From England. What do you think, the English they teach in schools, is it the American English, or the English from England.

I force a smile and, not able to hear Ira, I pause the podcast.

Well, I tell her, I wouldn't know. I didn't learn English here in the school system, being that it's my mother tongue and all. I figure maybe this comment would serve as a hint, that the noise coming out of the speakers is, to me, not some unintelligible cacophony or background noise, but rather, something I was in the middle of following, and I press play.

North African Savta (continues the discussion, completely unfazed): Oh, r i g h t. Well, you know, there was just this program on television, about this American couple, a twelve-year-old girl and a thirteen-year-old boy, in America, who had a baby, and they had to give it away. Did you see that program?

ALN: No, I didn't catch that one. We don't actually have a television.

NAS: No television? Really? Why not? Oh, just like my sister; she's Haredi, she doesn't have a television. She looks at me quizzically. I'm clearly not Haredi, yet she just can't seem to alight on any other logical explanation.

(Short pause, to point out to our non-Israeli readers the common assumption among Israelis that if you don't have a television, it must be because you're ultra-Orthodox. Never mind that one does not need an exceedingly conservation lifestyle to come to the conclusion that television here is, on average, a huge waste of time).

NAS: So if you don't have a television, what do you do for fun?

ALN: For fun? Ummm....we read books. Or we listen to radio programs. You know, just like the one I've been listening to, here in the car.

Another subtle hint that simply does not get through, followed by one final attempt to put the program back on. Oh, it's no use. I sigh, shut off the radio, and glance at my passenger.

So, you say you're going to your sister's house for a wedding...

Keep the balance,

ALN

Almond Blossoms -- Goodbye Until Next Year

2009-03-01T06:00:00.013+02:00

This Today's Flowers post is dedicated to my Mom.

This past week I found myself wandering around Ein Kerem, at the southern end of Jerusalem, following an off-site planning session that, to my delight, ended an hour ahead of schedule.

I was so pleasantly surprised by having this extra hour to myself that it took me nearly 15 minutes just to decide what to do with it. The sun, hidden behind the clouds, was due to set in about an hour. Perfect photography light.

It's the end of the almond tree blossoms. Ein Kerem is filled with almond trees -- שקדיות shkediot in Hebrew. This tree's claim to fame is that it is the first to bloom, in the dead of winter, and almost out of nowhere.

Now most almond trees in Israel are divided between bloom and foliage, with the white/pink blossoms contrasting against dark spindley branches and the bright green of newly sprouting leaves.

Here, the flowers have already dropped off as the tree develops leaves and shifts into fruit-producing mode.

Another Spring, already on its way...

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Keep the balance,

ALN

Ruby Tuesday -- They're Still Kicking. Well, Mostly

2009-02-24T06:00:00.004+02:00

Getting back to blogging means getting back on the Ruby Tuesday bandwagon. (Check out Work of the Poet's other photo memes, too... yellow is sometimes involved, and so is the sky...but alas, no time to keep up with everything, and so for now we stick with ruby).

They're just now winding down, though they've been gracing our table for the past week and a half. That Guy I Married brought them home for us two Fridays ago, in honor of Shabbat.

The flowers are called כלניות kalaniot in Hebrew and are grown locally, on Moshav land in the area. In fact, there is an anemone field right down the road from us. They also grow wild at this time of year -- although only in ruby red -- all over Israel.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Reflection

2009-02-23T21:56:00.005+02:00

For once, there's no hidden metaphor here... unless you're looking for some deeper meaning, and a reason to celebrate. Here it is:

It's finally started raining here in Israel.

Okay, so it came two months late, but we'll take every drop we can get, even when it means mud everywhere. Bring it on, we can handle it!

Keep the balance, and Let It Rain!

ALN

Perception and Creation Beyond Sight, 3

2009-02-22T20:44:00.012+02:00

(This is a continuation piece of last week's post, Perception and Creation Beyond Sight 2).

Immaterial Elements and Tactile Shades. Light. Color. Texture. Composition. For most artists, these are key concepts, central considerations in all their work. With closed eyes, color becomes irrelevant, as does all but the brightest light.

Sharon Karni's works, so rich in scope and layering (as well as color) showed me that textural nuance and material variety can be experienced as colorful, in and of themselves. With eyes closed and color no longer a consideration, I was able to appreciate and enjoy the depth of Karni's tactile expression via her use of varied materials and textures, from wood relief to netting to nails.

(An internet search led to one Hebrew explanation of her tendency to incorporate natural elements, such as beach sand and seawater, to her pigments, further adding to their sense of tactility. The Biblical title of this work refers to words contained in a line of Moshe's Song of the Sea describing the Red Sea's waters as standing "frozen" on each side).

Sharon Karni, Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), (detail), 2000-2004. Mixed technique on wood.

Cathedral, a medium-sized sculpture in plywood by Israel Hadany, could be mistaken for simplistic in shape, a smooth, nearly organic form that -- in contrast to the surging interior of an actual cathedral, sags toward the middle, only to soar upward at each end. To run my hands over its surface, eyes closed, was to flow down and up again, along its rounded exterior into the space created within. But the temptation of actually seeing this work wedged itself into my tactile experience after only a few seconds.

Israel Hadany, Cathedral, 2005. Plywood.

This was one of the few works for which, once I had opened my eyes, I could not limit myself to touch alone. The contrast of light and darkness, spilling over, around and within the form, had me mesmerized. An orderly row of small windows along its upper surface created a captivating sun-spot effect within. Experiencing the sculpture by touch alone sharpened my awareness of the piece's richness and depth of form, as well as the visual beauty a sightless person misses.

Israel Hadany, Cathedral, 2005 (interior). Plywood.

Compensation, Exaggeration. It is commonly believed that those lacking one sensory ability tend to deepen their other sensory abilities -- namely, hearing and touch -- in compensation. This makes sense to me, and I understand that magnetic imaging of the brain has proven it true on a neurological level as well.

During my visit, I cannot say that my neurological abilities shifted in any meaningful way, but my attention certainly did. The gallery, closed off only partially by short walls within the university's echoey, chamber-like corridor, had the opposite effect of that reflective, austere silence typical of most public art venues. After only a few minutes I was intensely, almost painfully aware of the volume of sound entering the venue. Previous wanderings through those halls, with my only goal to get from one end to the other, had not focused my awareness on the noise level, but here in the gallery I found it an almost overwhelming presence which disturbed my concentration. In this context, an "enhanced" ability to hear became a limitation.

Closed In, Exposed Outward. Last month, at a professional convention, I had the privilege of attending a presentation by several blind adults who shared some thoughts on their experiences before and after receiving dog guides. One man, a psychologist by profession, had lost his sight as a result of a war injury. He related his original refusal to have a dog guide, based on his fears of becoming dependent, and the many benefits he now credits to his canine companion, including a facilitation of his social connections with others. Instead of standing out as an objectified, dependent person, he and his dog now share the limelight, and a sense of healthy interdependence.

I remembered this man as I made my way around the exhibit, eyes closed, hands roaming over the artwork. I was acutely aware of the gallery's glass walls, and how ridiculous I must have looked to those who were unaware of the exhibit's focus. I felt exposed, and this bothered me. But I also felt strangely free, an unfamiliar sensation of being alone with myself, asking, If I can't see others, how much do I care how they see me?

In Conclusion. I am so visual a person, I find it extremely challenging to even imagine a world in which my sense of sight does not play a dominant role. Here in the Stern Gallery, I was reminded that my sight, for all its advantages, can limit my perception and my appreciation by its tendency to dominate my other senses. I came to learn that approaching art up close can, with all the irony implied, create a distance.

I credit this exhibit, its artists and curators, with providing us a particular opportunity to experience art -- and our own selves, experiencing the art -- anew.

* * * * *

Feeling and Meaning: Seeing Art Through Touch

The Max and Iris Stern Gallery

Faculty of Humanities, Mt. Scopus

December 2008 - June 2009

Opening Hours: Sun-Thur 11:00-15:00 (except University holidays)

Curators: Susan Nashman Fraiman, Ahuva Passow-Whitman

To contact Ahuva or arrange a guided tour, call 02-588-3881.

All photos here taken by ALN, and included here with permission of Ahuva Passow-Whitman.

* * * * *

Keep the balance,

ALN

Perception and Creation Beyond Sight, 2

2009-02-19T14:20:00.026+02:00

I have just spent half an hour with the exhibit “Feeling and Meaning – Seeing Art Through Touch,” now open in the Stern Gallery, a glass-walled pair of narrow rooms carved out of the wide, multi-angled hallway of the Humanities Wing of Hebrew University, Mt. Scopus. Although it is a small exhibit, featuring only twenty or so works, I easily could have stayed there an hour or more.

I took advantage of what I knew would be an abridged visit by passing fairly quickly from one work to the next, noting my reactions to the new and often surprising discoveries that came with experiencing a body of art in ways beyond the visual. Here are some of my impressions.

Here, You Can Touch. I entered the gallery completely aware that these objects, all of which had three-dimensional aspects, were on display to be touched as well as seen. Yet I had to consciously stop myself from asking the security guard to confirm that yes, I really was allowed to touch everything. This, in and of itself, was a freeing prospect, breaking a social convention while opening doors to a new way of perceiving the artwork.

Eyes Down, Hands Up. I did not want to fall into an impossible attempt at closing my eyes and "pretending to be blind;" as a seeing person -- however myopic -- I know that I am habituated to experiences my world "eyes first." By closing them, I understood that would only be scraping the surface of taking in my surroundings via additional senses. I chose instead to touch the work with eyes open, but limiting their use, either beginning with a brief glance, to get a general impression of the size, shape, color and subject of the work, or else fixing my gaze downward, until after I had first gotten to know the art through my hands.

The Same Work, Twice. This duality, seeing the work only peripherally while allowing my sense of touch to dominate my sensory intake, led to a feeling of intense sensory dichotomy. Through touch alone I could not identify a small sculpture which afterwards, by sight, I effortlessly recognized as a bust of Chaim Weizmann. But it wasn't just a matter of finding something recognizable; the sculpture as perceived by my hands, was nothing like the one my eyes claimed to see. In all but those two or three works containing exceedingly clean, straight lines and clear-cut materials, I was never able to reconcile what I looked at with what I touched, effectively turning every piece into two -- or more -- completely different works of art.

How Big, and How Wide?

The first thing I did when approaching a piece was to run my hands along its edges, trying to establish a tactile understanding of the size of the work.

Sharon Karni. Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), 2000-2004. Mixed technique on wood.

For many of the larger pieces, such as Sharon Karni's Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), this process took time and required a certain effort -- reaching up, around, crouching down. It struck me, the amount of time and effort that would be required to understand the scope and size of an image without the help of my eyes.

A Feeling for the Whole Picture. It only got more difficult when I tried to create an overall internal picture of the work in front of me. With information coming in from only two hands, I could take in about 100 square centimeters at a time, and only slowly, bit by bit. I ended up trying -- unsuccessfully -- to assemble a disjointed collection of data into one coherent image, but found I could do so only afterwards, using my eyes. My sensory experience lacked wholeness and continuity.

Sharon Karni. Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), (detail), 2000-2004. Mixed technique on wood.

Zohar Ginio, the lawyer/artist, and only blind artist participating in the exhibit, noted in his interview with The Jerusalem Report that he limits his works to a small scale since it is difficult for blind people get a feel for a large work that they cannot feel all at once. Indeed, his stone sculpture The Laborer, a self-portrait of his hand, is large in impact but small enough (approx. 80 across) to allow both sighted and sightless people to take in the work as a whole.

To be continued...

Keep the balance,

ALN

______

Feeling and Meaning: Seeing Art Through Touch

The Max and Iris Stern Gallery

Faculty of Humanities, Mt. Scopus

December 2008 - June 2009

Opening Hours: Sun-Thur 11:00-15:00 (except University holidays)

Curators: Susan Nashman Fraiman, Ahuva Passow-Whitman

To contact Ahuva or arrange a guided tour, call 02-588-3881.

All photos here taken by ALN, and included here with permission of Ahuva.

Perception and Creation Beyond Sight

2009-02-19T11:56:00.007+02:00

I wish I could include here some of the amazing paintings by artist John Bramblitt, although when you see them, you might be tempted to believe he is not blind. He is featured here in a recent NYT, as well as here in Tara Parker Pope's Well blog.

His loss of sight became an ironic source of new courage, and a his painting, a way of communicating his perceptions.

"It wasn’t until I lost my sight that I became brave enough to fail,” he said. “Even if the paintings didn’t look good, I didn’t have to see them."

Wow. To go back to painting, after blindness. His ability to reframe his (and his environment's) outlook toward his limitation, into one of abilities, is powerful of itself.

On the subject, a current exhibit at the Stern Gallery on the Mt. Scopus campus of Hebrew University features artwork by, and for, blind and visually impaired visitors. Read about it here, and in the February 16 edition of The Jerusalem Report (no web-based article available, as far I know), which includes a piece on artist Zohar Ginio, a lawyer by profession, and the only blind artist to have artwork -- a sculptural self-portrait of his hand -- featured at the exhibit.

I have walked by this exhibit several times after-hours, on my way back from evening class. The gallery has glass walls, allowing some works to be viewed from the outside, but I have not yet had the opportunity to wander in and experience the work tactically. That needs correction, and since I happen to have class today, I am now going to log off, get up off my tush and head over to campus early, so that I have time to enjoy this exhibit. Stay tuned for impressions.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Re-Awakening

2009-02-19T11:19:00.006+02:00

What a funny feeling -- four weeks off-blog, and now, the ironic sting of returning to this virtual world of real people... a feeling that this corner of my life has dropped out from under me. Now there's that expected-nevertheless-surprising squeak of the gears as I try to slide my way back in.

Winter is here, rain is not (not in Israel, not nearly enough of it), but the microbes are back in full, and my two-week battle with bronchitis was there to prove it. Tune in for my forthcoming work, An Ode to Rythromycin.

No question, this was my psycho-somatic response to the usual stress at work and the unrelenting scrollbar of daily activity, against the ever-nearing backdrop of our country at war. The verdict is quite clear: if I do not learn to pace this hectic life-schedule multi-tasking thing, I will inevitably engage in a forced vacation, and last week was it. I was in bed, or flopping over onto some sofa or other, for the entire week. Did not recognize myself.

Even odder, for the duration of that week, nearly everything was input. Instead of writing (or blogging, as noted), I read.* Instead of practicing therapy at work, or art in the studio, I went over books and articles about therapy and art. And I ate regular meals, ones that I had taken time to prepare. A-B-C's for most, a notable accomplishment for me. I barely opened the computer, and within three days found myself drowning and spluttering in an email effusion that nearly required a Cyber Coast Guard bail-out. No blogging. None. Not even blog-reading. It was the printed word, read off of authentic, bleached tree-pulp products.

Freedom, in an odd way, but also a strange pang of loss and absence... and a return to my original question:

How does everyone find the time?

Please, send the magic pill on over.

Keep the balance (or -- you've been warned -- your body may do it for you),

ALN

____

* Namely, אישה בורחת מבשורה -- Until the End of the Land (2006) by David Grossman (I only found circumstantial evidence of its availability translated in English), and How Doctors Think (2007/2008) by Jerome Groopman. I have thoughts on both, but not for now.

Inaugural Ruby Tuesday

2009-01-20T20:23:00.006+02:00

It's time for new leadership... and a new Ruby Tuesday.

Not that the two are necessarily related, but with the inauguration just over, a general excitement pervades the air, making the different colors that much brighter (and in certain contexts, all the less relevant... Go President Obama!).

I caught these cool, star-bursty creatures last week at Hebrew University, Mt. Scopus, Jerusalem, using a digital macro (note the varied focal lengths). No idea what they are... some mysterious, desert-thriving species sticking out in all directions in the raised bed opposite the entrance to the Akademon (university book store). Positive ID's welcome.

Note how the stamens reveal themselves over time. I love the color transformation... even as the flower withers.

With brightest wishes to our new president.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Now We're Off to Nauru

2009-01-18T21:56:00.002+02:00

The Rebbetzin's Husband does a wonderful job summing it all up in HH #121... and your next Micronesian vacation is on him. Meanwhile, there's some good reading.

ALN

The Price of an Education

2009-01-17T20:34:00.015+02:00

This year Elder P began fourth grade in a new school. While the dress code of her previous school (grades 1-3) permitted girls to attend school wearing trousers, her current school requires skirts.

Over the summer Elder P received a lovely tunic that reaches mid-thigh, which she always wears with trousers. I figured it was only a matter of time before she was told not to wear it to school, and I had even warned her, but left it up to her to continue wearing it or not.

Last Thursday evening, right before bedtime (why do these things always come up right before bedtime?), Elder Princeski mentioned that her teacher had pulled her aside for The Conversation. The tunic isn't long enough; you need to wear something longer. I was surprised it had taken this long.

* * * * *

Flashback. Earlier in that same evening, Elder P and I are snuggled side-by-side on the sofa, huddling over my MacBook, reading aloud this article from the NY Times.

Afghan Schoolgirls Undeterred by Attack
KANDAHAR, Afghanistan — One morning two months ago, Shamsia Husseini and her sister were walking through the muddy streets to the local girls school when a man pulled alongside them on a motorcycle and posed what seemed like an ordinary question.
“Are you going to school?”
Then the man pulled Shamsia’s burqa from her head and sprayed her face with burning acid...

I first read the whole article to myself, then hesitated. Should I share this with my daughter? Shamsia is 17 years old, the age of Elder P's Bnei Akiva madricha (youth group counselor). Other, much younger girls were attacked as well, along with teachers --fourteen women and girls in all. It's nearly always a dilemma for me; How do we educate our kids, especially our girls, without tearing down their (mis)perception that the world -- their world -- is a mostly-safe place?

I decided to begin by showing her the accompanying slide show, which pictures the girls studying, playing and walking around the Mirwais School for Girls. In the photos, Shamsia's scars are visible but not overwhelming. Then we went over the article, which exudes optimism. Reporter Dexter Filkins writes that since the attack, all but a few girls have returned to school, that their parents are eager for them to go, and that the girls experience their school as a haven. I was struck by the way that Shamsia and her family seem acutely aware of what is at stake, for themselves and their society.

“My parents told me to keep coming to school even if I am killed,” said Shamsia, 17, in a moment after class. Shamsia’s mother, like nearly all of the adult women in the area, is unable to read or write. “The people who did this to me don’t want women to be educated. They want us to be stupid things...

“The people who did this,” she said, “do not feel the pain of others.”

After reading the article, Elder P and I reviewed some of the ideas mentioned. I tried to explain the concept of the Taliban and their agenda. I was curious what Elder P had absorbed from our reading and accompanying conversation, so I asked what she thought about the article, and why, in her opinion, the girls had been attacked.

It's sad. They [the Taliban] don't want the girls to lead. They don't want them to go to school. They want [the girls] to stay at home and not learn how to be in charge.

Sounds like she got the gist of it.

* * * * *

To the teacher's credit, Elder P was not at all upset about the skirt-length conversation, and she breezily accepted the dress code requirement. I was relieved that she had been pulled her aside, and not embarrassed in front of her class. During the first parent-teacher conference of the year, this teacher told us that she emphasizes interpersonal relations and positive midot (personality traits) in her teaching, and I felt that her approach toward my daughter only supported this.

I don't wish to exaggerate, or find connections that don't exist; even so, I couldn't help but feel the irony that evening. The Taliban know that to control their society, they have to control the women of their society, by limiting how they dress, where they go, and what they learn. The families there understand and oppose the Taliban's hurtful agenda. The understand that modesty does not equal ignorance.

My daughter loves to read -- in two languages. She loves math. She's learning how to do an internet search, and how to write a book report. For now, her curriculum and that of the boys in her grade (who learn in separate classrooms within the same school) is pretty much identical. In a few short years, it won't be. The boys will continue to study Talmud for several additional hours a week, while the girls will not. If my daughter does well enough in school, she'll be able to go on to study anything she likes -- medicine, law, teaching, science, computers. Unlike Shamsia.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Keep Sane, Keep Creative

2009-01-14T23:24:00.010+02:00

Welcome to our studio.

Just a reminder from your local art therapist to keep your body nourished, your mind active, and your soul flourishing during these difficult and stressful times.

Pictured here are Always the Imp and her good friend GG developing their watercolor skills.

Always came away transformed by the creative process.

Earlier today, she returned from her after-school art class (wouldn't want this shoemaker's daughter going barefoot!) with an original, double-spouted tea set, pictured here during this evening's hot-chocolate-based clinical trials.

Not to worry, she drank from both little teacups, while Blondini Boy expressed his acute disappointment at having his chocolate milk relegated to the same-old plastic cup.

Keep healthy, keep safe, keep creating. Keep the balance.

ALN

Gaza Update

2009-01-14T19:43:00.002+02:00

No, not from me, but fortunately for the rest of us, there are some people for whom the ideas eat, drink, rest, and sleep have but little meaning. Get your update from Jack over here at Random Thoughts - Gaza Update #16. Jack, enjoy your cereal (At the rate you're updating, you'll need all the vitamins you can get!).

ALN

Hurray for Proactivity

2009-01-13T22:04:00.003+02:00

Go visit Treppenwitz... he gets right to the point. (Over-simplified summary? Put up, or shut up. But read the post).

Ruby Tuesday -- Orange, Really

2009-01-13T21:26:00.007+02:00

I know I'm pushing the definition of "ruby" here.... but I am so fond of orange.

This is a piece I completed awhile back, as a present for my Mom. It's small, about 2/3 the size of a sheet of printer paper.

The base is handmade paper (made by yours truly), with an overlay of selected fabrics and ribbons, then hand stitched and beaded. Over the years, I was inspired to delve into the fiber arts, specifically paper-making, by my good friend Q. As for the stitching technique, several years ago I had the privilege of attending a week-long workshop in hand stitching with Japanese fiber artist Misao Tsubaki, an incredibly talented woman and a wonderfully supportive teacher. (See some examples of her work here; her website, unfortunately out of date, is in Japanese, but there are photos there as well).

Remember to keep creating -- whatever makes you happy -- in these troubling days of war.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Basic Facts

2009-01-13T19:00:00.006+02:00

Our neighbor Y has asked me to update his wife S's story (back here). He writes as follows:

S's Paris-based boss, the CFO of her company, was shocked to find out yesterday, while speaking with her on the phone, that missiles and rockets actually fall on Be'er Sheva!

After having been upset with him (and the rest of her French colleagues) for not calling over the past two weeks to ask how are they getting along in Be'er-Sheva, he called yesterday to talk about work. Suddenly, the siren went off, and S apologized politely, saying she has to go to the Mamad (bomb shelter).

He replied with a very loud WHAT???? and was shocked to learn that Be'er-Sheva, along with all the other nearby Israeli towns, was under fire.

Now, we are not talking about a peasant from Provence who couldn't care less about foreign news; this is an intelligent person, working in the field of mass-media, watching the news. The only information he receives through TV is that Israel is flattening Gaza and its citizens.

He apologized and said he feels terrible for being so ignorant, but is there a better example for the combination of bad hasbara (PR) and simple anti-Israelism? (I think I just made that word up).

S and Y, thanks for the update. And I believe the term you're looking for is anti-semitism. 'Nuff said.

Keep the balance,

ALN

___

Addendum: Here's one of the more balanced articles on offer c/o the New York Times.

If You've Got a Few Minutes

2009-01-12T21:08:00.003+02:00

No time to summarize? Worry not. Jack has been busy as usual, keeping us updated. See here.

Lots of good stuff, but if you only have time for a couple of things, don't miss Seraphic Secret right over here.

Thanks, Jack!

Keep the balance, keep safe.

ALN

Read This

2009-01-11T23:01:00.004+02:00

Go Meryl. How painful to understand that this is the reality. How I wish it weren't.

The Many Ways It Touches Us

2009-01-11T18:56:00.018+02:00

In Israel, six degrees of separation is going way overboard. One or two usually suffices.

I'm relieved that -- for now -- my family and I have remained one or two degrees of separation from unending worry and shocking tragedy. But within two degrees of separation, there are far too many examples. Here are a few:

One co-worker, H, had just returned from a family holiday in Eilat over Chanukah, only to hear that the first missile to reach a house beyond Sderot crashed into her sister-in-law's apartment, injuring their teenage daughter. A week afterwards the girl was out of the ICU and -- thank G-d -- on her way to physical recovery. Her emotional recovery will take much longer. Two weeks later, H receives word that another relative, a nephew, has been injured and evacuated. One of her own children is serving, and she knows what could be. She tries not to think about it.

II.

A classmate leans over toward my computer last week in the middle of class. She has left her kids with their regular "babysitters," their grandparents -- her own parents -- in Be'er Sheva. They watched the missile fall into the kindergarten across the street, felt the BOOM rock their apartment. Now they're afraid to leave the house, but this evening they've decided to spend a few minutes in the mall down the street, just for some air and a change of surroundings. Now my classmate has her mobile phone in hand; she insists on checking the internet news every few minutes. Just in case.

III.

My cousin sends an email explaining that while her son, recently drafted, is still in training and therefore will not be going into Gaza, he is often sent to the border to provide security and support to the soldiers. One of his closest friends lies in the ICU, critically injured after fighting in Gaza. His friends are filled with worry and guilt that they cannot be by his side.

IV.

My friend and neighbor S. commutes to Be'er Sheva every morning. She relates the time when she was mentally preparing herself; She rolls down her car window and turns up the radio, should there be a warning siren during her drive. No sooner is the window open and

rrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrr.

She stops the car, lies down alongside it, hands over her head and neck. She explains to me that the missile shrapnel flies up to a height of 30 cm, so lying down flat is pretty good protection. She notes that our bomb shelter room ("Mamad," ממ"ד), like theirs, is on the North side of the house, so it will provide pretty good protection should the missiles start raining down on us. Meanwhile, she watches missiles falling over Be'er Sheva from her tenth-story office window, keeps her purse accessible under her chair, and cuts off telephone calls to run to the shelter when the siren wails. I express amazement that she is still willing to come to work every day. It's not the same as living there, she reminds me. I come home to quiet every night. It's not like my kids are sleeping all together with us in the shelter and we're waking up several times a night to throw them down onto the rug.*

Another coworker, N, is safe (for now). Her family is not. She lives in Jerusalem. Her brothers and sister and their children live in Gaza, along the coast. Her phone is on all the time. Her family has no electricity. No heat. They don't go out, to work or school. Their only source of information is a small, battery-powered radio, which tells them whether the most recent bombings and incursions are anywhere near their home. Every time N talks to her brother, she tells me, she makes sure to say a real good-bye. She is afraid it will be the last time.

VI.

A senior staff member is as close to beside herself as I've ever seen her. Her son is being drafted tomorrow. He will not be in Gaza, but her thoughts are there. She doesn't spend too much time watching all those films showing soldiers and bombings and house raids, but she cannot stop thinking about it. We can only imagine what's going on there, she tell me, emotion filling her voice. Our army has killed 600 of them. Six hundred. I can't get my mind around it. Women, children. Families. Here I am, safe in my home, enjoying my every day activities, while over there... Nothing good ever comes when we fight. Their next generation will only learn more hate.

* * * * *

A friend's husband, a security expert, is in the reserves along the Gazan border and comes home every night at two in the morning. A psychologist colleague has been called up to counsel traumatized soldiers. An oncology patient from Gaza in the hospital for treatments, worried about his father and siblings while facing a completely different threat to his own life. Countless colleagues have children in the army. They jump whenever their phones ring, half-apologizing for their edginess. We give them knowing looks and continue our day.

* * * * *

This war -- like all wars here -- has been full of the kind of wrenching decisions, moral dilemmas, and wide-scale destruction that hurt to contemplate. Eight years of missiles onto our compatriots in Sderot? Too much. The killing of children forced to be human shields? Disgusting. Our soldiers running from house to mosque, flying overhead, facing split-second, life-threatening decisions? Painful. I want it to stop, want a modicum of quiet, and safety, and security, and reason, to reign. But it doesn't.

For now I have avoided the more graphic media, the photos and films. I read some Hebrew-language articles, and tune in to some of the American media. Knowing what is going on, on both sides, is terrible. Often I find it hard enough walking through those hospital doors every day, and I'm not looking for more questions no one can answer. I understand why we had to go in there and try to put an end to it. But I worry, because I know that all that violence and destruction will not stop the hate, and hate keeps Hamas going, and going.

I go to bed every night to the slightly-faint echo of bombs, and wake up in the morning, in the dark, again to the sound of bombs. I try to fit my mind around the simultaneous feelings of relief and sorrow that follow those sounds.

I think Shoilem Aleichem (via Joseph Stein's screenplay) put it best in our favorite classic, Fiddler on the Roof:

Townsperson: Why should I break my head about the outside world?  Let the outside world break its own head....
Tevye: He is right...
Perchik: Nonsense. You can't close your eyes to what's happening in the world.
Tevye: He's right.

Rabbi's pupil: He's right, and he's right. They can't both be right!

Tevye: (Pause). You know, you are also right.

Only, this is no outside world. Not even close to six degrees' worth. This is here, and this is us.

Keep the balance, and keep safe.

ALN

HH - The Big 200

2009-01-11T18:54:00.001+02:00

Get it here.

Mazal tov to Jack -- and all of the HH hosts -- for keeping it going.

Best wishes to all.

ALN

The Defensive War Out There

2009-01-01T16:36:00.003+02:00

My former beit knesset (synagogue) in the Old Country of California has sent out this notice:

We're not the only ones, of course, and in Europe it is par for the course. I can only hope it ends with nasty notes, and nothing worse.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Reporting the Subtleties

2009-01-01T12:00:00.005+02:00

Please take the time to read Susan Dentzer's excellent piece, just published online in the New England Journal of Medicine. There she focuses on medical reporting, but her point -- that in general, journalists must make more of an effort to present the context and complicated subtleties of an issue -- pertains to all fields of journalism.

I will avoid falling prey to the picking-and-choosing tendency she describes but not offering selected quotes here, but for her article's valuable conclusions:

In my view, we in the news media have a responsibility to holdourselves to higher standards if there is any chance that doctorsand patients will act on the basis of our reporting. We arenot clinicians, but we must be more than carnival barkers; wemust be credible health communicators more interested in conveyingclear, actionable health information to the public than carryingout our other agendas. There is strong evidence that many journalistsagree — and in particular, consider themselves poorlytrained to understand medical studies and statistics.⁵ But notonly should our profession demand better training of healthjournalists, it should also require that health stories, rather than being rendered in black and white, use all the grays onthe palette to paint a comprehensive picture of inevitably complexrealties. Journalists could start by imposing on their worka "prudent reader or viewer" test: On the basis of my news account,what would a prudent person do or assume about a given medicalintervention, and did I therefore succeed in delivering thebest public health message possible?

Ms. Dentzer goes on to point out that those interviewed also have the responsibility to aid their interviewing journalists by discussing medical issues and research results in context.

The field of journalism is in the midst of an incredible transformation, as printed formats are becoming less financially viable, more centrally-owned, and altogether fewer, while the electronic media is broadening in scope, availability, and approach. Bloggers are a central part of this change, with our ability to respond to events and share our viewpoints immediately and openly, and with this ability comes a responsibility to write with thoughtfulness and respect.

As readers and viewers, we must also commit ourselves to approaching the media with enough self respect to avoid sensational headlines and reject simplified descriptions. Do we read about a medical study or a political situation and take it at face value, allowing it to limit our understanding, narrow our outlook and increase our fears? Or do we take advantage of the many tools available to explore the issue, ask questions, look beyond try to see the issue in greater depth? Do we complain that the headlines are sensationalistic, then go and buy the paper anyway, or blithely quote some study we don't really understand?

Bottom line: Publishers and reporters must commit themselves, as Ms. Dentzer has done, to greater depth and breadth when reporting wars and politics, social and geographic changes, global issues and -- dare I add -- even celebrity personalities and events. And we, as media consumers, must share this responsibility.

Keep the balance,

ALN

"You Should Have Met Me Before..."

2008-12-30T22:11:00.013+02:00

I'd been hearing great things about a certain patient, a young woman, but my previous attempts to meet her had fallen on bad timing.

I always get a little nervous approaching a patient for the first time... I never know who I'll be meeting, what state she'll be in, especially at the early stages of diagnosis. Overwhelming emotional storm? Breakdown? Confusion? Denial? Contradictory, shifting affect? All of the above? Will she even register our introduction, or -- often as not at this early stage -- will she mistake me for a physician or nurse, and set forth a litany of disjointed questions about medicines, central catheters, fevers?

But yesterday morning, there was G, smiling, inviting me into her little corner of the outpatient clinic. Is this a good time? I ask. Of course! Why not? is her immediate answer. She is already succumbing to the soporific effects of the meds she's received, but with little encouragement she gushes into a brief description of herself. She has this job and that hobby. She is involved, engaged, active.

You should have met me before. I was the athletic type. I used to run, do aerobics all the time. I was a teacher, I had a whole class of kids, ran a whole educational program. I love art, love to write.

I'm trying to keep up, listening at 100 km/hr. I tell her we can offer her art therapy, bibliotherapy. Meanwhile I'm noting all the was's and used to's. That part has me a little worried; she's only just begun treatment, and she's already left central parts of her identity behind. She is clearly a doing person -- and for now, she is not doing, therefore she does not feel fully herself. I can relate, all too well.

I weigh my options. Do I remark on the used to's, thus beginning the teeniest intervention without having had the time to really meet her, or do I let it go and make a note for later?

Her oncologist steps in to inquire about her general welfare, and I gain a few more minutes to think, listen and decide. I am impressed with how readily and directly she describes the recent state of her digestive system. After all, he may be a physician, but he's a guy, and she's a young woman... who seems to understand the value of accurately reporting her physical state.

He goes, and we resume our conversation. Meanwhile, I've made a decision. You're still a teacher, you know. You're on a break from teaching, but you're still a teacher. And it really shows that you're an energetic, athletic person, despite all these tiring treatments. We move into a brief discussion of what it means for her to be forced into this unwanted break from her active life. At this first glance, she seems to know exactly what her limitations are, and what she still can do. She is eager to move forward while she can.

I want to learn some art techniques, and I want to meet the bibliotherapist. We should get started, right away. But for now you'll have to excuse me, I'm a little stoned from all these drugs, I think I'm falling asleep...

I tell her it's been a real pleasure meeting her and excuse myself. Her enthusiasm and optimism are contagious, and I find myself smiling as I exit the room. I'm so happy to finally meet her, I mention as I pass her oncologist. What a fantastic person.

He looks up. Don't get too attached. Looks back down at his paperwork.

A sudden rush of air, and all that contagious enthusiasm has collapsed.

He means well. Maybe he was just trying to look out for me, or for himself. And yes, I am aware of the dangers of her illness. But getting attached is part of the work. I can't do my job without it.

Anyway, it's too late.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Roller Coaster

2008-12-30T20:53:00.007+02:00

It's been a time of extremes. Chanukah was fantastic - fabulous wedding, the kids (even Blondini Boy) were lovely bridesmaids / flower-kids. Lots of celebrating, Sheva Brachot, and all those wonderful wedding things.

Then Chanukah starts winding down, the IDF winds up... and our nation's young adults -- my teenage cousin, his girlfriend, their buddies -- are going up in jet planes, or planning down on the ground, risking their lives while our nation's kids and adults are hovering under bus stops and in shelters.

The U.N. can condemn all it wants. So can France, and whoever else. Enough is enough. Once again, Hamas is using their own citizenry as cannon fodder, and their willingness to do so is terrible for them, and ultimately, even more terrible for us.

Hamas wants us out, wants us dead. They say as much, all the time. But we're here. To stay.

Even those families who have been temporarily forced out of their homes -- in Sderot, in Ashkelon -- will be back soon. Meanwhile, their kids did not return to school this morning along with their fellow pupils around the country. Instead they are hovering within their houses or taking physical refuge in the homes of relatives, friends and strangers around the country. Where does the psyche take refuge? I do not know.

I look at that ubiquitous map, the one outlining Kassam ranges, and take note that we are within 50 kilometers of Ashkelon, only slightly beyond the farthest estimated capabilities of the longest-range weapon Hamas has amassed -- for the time being. If you've never been here, you might have a hard time envisioning just how small this country is. If you already live here, I don't need to explain.

I oppose war, hate violence, condemn mass destruction, and most of all, detest the thought of pain and suffering enacted by one group of humans on another. But enough is enough. We've been saying this for too long, while those ominous lines denoting Hamas' weapon range expand outward from the front page into our front gardens, our own front line.

Enough is enough.

ושבו בנים לגבולם.

(For a recent report / opinion, please read one of my favorite blogs, A Soldier's Mother, here).

Keep the balance,

ALN

Let Them Eat Cake

2008-12-21T08:26:00.003+02:00

Just a quick line, before the whirlwind packing process that precedes a family wedding (fancy white flower girl dresses, contingency dresses (note color of previous), little hair doo-dads, extra tights, more extra tights, needle and thread, etc. etc. etc...)

Last week I hosted colleagues from our school's senior staff for a presentation on the implementation of the new Hospital Obligatory Education Law, which is finally going into effect some time in first few months of 2009. According to our school tradition, the presenter prepares a light meal for all of us to enjoy before the evening's program, and in addition to the soup, bread, and cheeses I had prepared a couple of chocolate cakes.

I went upstairs where That Guy I Married was getting the offspring into pajamas. They had not failed to catch the freshly-baked cake aroma wafting through the house (and it wasn't even erev Shabbat), and asked whether they would be invited to partake. When I was little, I told them, my Mommy was very concerned about not having us eat sugar, so she never let us have the cake she made for guests or work meetings.

Without missing a beat, Elder Princeski retorts,

Mommy you're not going to do that to us, are you?

Followed by the inevitable, Mommy, you should blog this! Either of those rejoinders would have convinced me, but really, I was planning on giving them some anyway...

(Sorry, Mom - I know your intentions were good).

Shavua tov, a good week, and, of course, a huge mazal tov to N & M!

Keep the balance,

ALN

Be'er Sheva: One Principal Rewriting the Status Quo

2008-12-18T11:36:00.024+02:00

(Read this post first if you haven't yet caught my posts about last month's in-service in Be'er Sheva).

We are traveling by air-conditioned bus, having driven Road 60 out of Be'er Sheva and east onto Road 31, north of Be'er Sheva, toward Arad and the Dead Sea. We have now turned right off the paved main road and I wish we were back on it, since all this bouncing along an exceptionally bumpy dirt road, even at 20 km/h, has made me completely car sick. As I snap photos out the window, I am trying not to throw up all over the vehicle's well-preserved upholstery.

Welcome to the pezura. The word pezura -- פזורה -- is Hebrew for dispersion and refers to approximately half a million dunam (equivalent to about 175,00 acres) of unrecognized land, containing 50,000 unlicensed houses, and many, many more people, spread throughout the desert. Within the Negev there are seven recognized Beduin towns: Rahat, Tel Sheva, Kseifa, Arara, Segev Shalom, Houra and Laqiyya, and half the southern Beduin population lives within these towns (reference here). As for the the other half, they live throughout the Dispersion, where there are no electricity lines, no water pipes or central sewage systems, no garbage collection. With very few exceptions, there are no official schools.

In the middle of all this brown, dusty emptiness is one exception, a literal oasis of a school. Amal is Arabic for hope, and the Amal School is aptly named. Kids from kindergarten through high school arrive here every morning by bus, from all over the pezura. The long, dusty road is literally in the middle of nowhere, and if a child misses the bus, he misses school for the day.

We are welcomed at the entranceway and led across the school's courtyard -- an expansive pebbled area containing trees and a paved central area -- and into the library, where drinks and cookies have been set out for us.

The school principal enters and apologizes for not having met us at the gate. He introduces himself as Khalil Elkorm, now in his twelfth year as school principal, and his twentieth in the Israeli Education ministry.*

His presence fills the room as he launches into an energetic talk about his educational philosophy, the main thrust of which is that schools must find a variety of ways to educate, beyond the traditional frontal teaching style, and that any new educational program, as good as it may sound at first, must be tested and adapted to the needs of the children in system, before it can be thrust upon them.

Over the years, Khalil has helped to establish after-school enrichment programs, hot meal programs, and an on-site medical clinic so that the parents will be involved in their children's education, without compromising all that has been accomplished by the sectarian and tribal conflicts that would work in opposition to Khalil's educational priorities for his 650 pupils. When asked how he deals with the intergenerational conflict that must arise between these modern-educated children and their conservative parents, Khalil described in further detail how he learned the hard way, that the school must guide the parents, and not the opposite, or change will never happen.

Following our talk Khalil brings us to the kindergarten area, fenced off from the rest to give these youngest pupils a chance to have their own safe space before moving up to first grade.

Unlike the camera-savvy grade-school children who have already mobbed us, begging to be photographed, these little ones are still shy and wary of visitors, but after a few minutes their smiles break through and they are happy to have us watch them solve problems in small groups.

Back in the courtyard, Khalil explains that it is election day in the local towns. In honor of this event, a group of older girls are conducting mock elections, standing in two straight lines as they wait to cast their vote the ballot box.

I'm pretty impressed by their ability to stand there patiently, and wonder how much of it has to do with the teachers observing along the sidelines, or whether, as girls, they have just gotten used to being told to wait their turn. I think about the ramifications of what they are doing. How many of these girls will actually get to vote in an election in their lifetimes? They face so many hurdles: As women in a men-dominated society, and as an under-recognized minority living in unrecognized areas.

Khalil is clearly very proud of his school and its accomplishments, and for him this means rejecting his society's status quo. "His" girls are already voting, even if their votes will not influence this year's election.

Keep the balance,

ALN

_____

* Khalil gave me his full permission to be featured here.

Be'er Sheva, in Retrospect

2008-12-18T10:54:00.010+02:00

It's been awhile.... all good things: Family wedding coming up, work presentation last Sunday, and other details I won't bore you with.

If you're a regular reader here (kudos to you!) you're aware of my in-service training last month at Beit Yatziv, a continuing education center for teachers, located within a historical neighborhood of the southern desert city of Be'er Sheva. It was my intention to blog live from down there, but they kept us so busy (classes from 8 am to 10 pm), with some rest and lots of food in between) that I couldn't keep up. It was also very clear at the time that those moments between classes, lectures and workshops were digestion time for the brain. The few posts I did managed from there are available here, here and here.

Meanwhile (yesterday afternoon, in fact) we met to kick off this year's series of bimonthly workshops on multiculturalism in the work place. I and several others were pleased to learn that the emphasis of our discussions will not be limited to Jewish-Arab -- and other religion- and race- considered -- relations, but will also focus on organizational issues and the discrepancies between the hospital/medical organizational culture and our own educational culture within it.

Not all of the staff participants of the bimonthly meetings were present at Beit Yatziv, and the opposite, but as we begin this new series of meetings, the experience in Be'er Sheva remains at the forefront of my mind, with the field trip to the surrounding Beduin areas at the locus of that experience.

I'll begin with where we did not go. We did not enter any private homes or tents. With the exception of school children, we did not meet "ordinary" Beduins. We met some of the exceptions; the role models, the risk takers, the mould breakers. All of them are well known in their respective communities, respected by some and resented by others, for daring to go against the grain and change the status quo. In the next few days I'll introduce you to them, one at a time. Stay posted.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Ruby Tuesday

2008-12-08T23:52:00.004+02:00

OK, so I'm putting this up on Monday night, in anticipation of a long Ruby Tuesday with no room for blogging.

Winter is definitely -- sadly -- not yet in full swing here in Israel, which means no rain, as of yet (with the minor exception of the rain that overran my friend N's gutter system). At least we have succulents, and some color remaining, here and there. Presenting this afternoon's garden tour:

Tuesday morning addendum: Are the Heavens laughing? Twenty minutes after posting, it started to rain. Didn't last long, but still...

Keep the balance,

ALN

"Maybe I Should Write About It..."

2008-12-08T20:52:00.008+02:00

I know, we're not supposed to have favorites. Or at least, we're not supposed to show them.

But I won't lie to myself, or to you. I have favorite patients. And they're not necessarily the sweetest ones, or the friendliest ones, or the ones that always draw a crowd of staff members and volunteers, because they're so darn cute.

OK, I like those patients, too. I love them, really. But they aren't my favorites.

My favorite patients are the ones who tell their stories, share their lives, plunge the depths, with an authenticity that astounds. It expresses itself, often as not, through a mighty silence, a reclaiming of their lives via quiet refusal, or restrained acknowledgement.

T is nineteen years old. He was meant to have graduated high school last year with a diploma and a qualifying certificate in electronics, but he didn't make it back to school to finish his senior year.

Meanwhile his hair has grown back, springy dark corkscrews that he still feels a need to hide under a baseball cap. During last week's visit he was short on patience, fasting before a procedure, so our conversation was brief and centered around Spanish football teams.

This morning, though, T is feeling much better, sitting in Outpatient waiting for his regular check-up, and --surprise -- he wants to talk. I ask him about the Sidge festival two weeks ago, a holy day for Ethiopian Jews, during which they celebrate aliyah and gather to pray for all Jews to return to the Holy Land. T claims not to know too much about it, then changes his approach.

What kind of respect do you think olim deserve? he asks me. Point blank. Immigrant to immigrant. No beating around the bush, and no whitewashing.

I think immigrants like me, from the United States, get a lot more respect than immigrants like you, from Ethiopia.

He responds by giving me one of his fantastic smiles that announces: At last, the truth comes out! We discuss the discrepancies, the race-based unfairnesses. We don't get into too much detail, since T is the type that likes to hint at things before laying his trust on the line. With him, you gotta earn it, over and over.

You know, when we get here, they don't even recognize our university degrees. No, I did not know that. I also had no idea that T attended school for the first time only after moving, at age twelve, from his rural village to the far away city of Gondar. He's telling me this, and I'm imagining a preteen, illiterate village boy falling like Dorothy into a foreign world whose very name sounds nearly Tolkien. In Gondar T studied math and learned to speak a few basic words of English, though this barely helped him two months later when he arrived in Israel. My mouth was already too old to learn to speak right, he explains, sticking his tongue out and demonstrating the difficulties he had, shaping that adolescent mouth into the words of yet another set of foreign sounds.

How many times can one kids move? Multiple times, it turns out. Once in Israel, he moved from an absorption center in the South to a development town in the Center, to a dormitory trade school along the West Coast, and then... leukemia. Back down south for treatments. Recovery, and back to school.

Relapse.

New hospital, new people, new living situation. T recounts each step but leaves the details behind.

I'm sitting there, trying to follow all of this while keeping track of the number of times he moved in a span of six years. So far I've counted seven.

Eight, he corrects me, and hints that there were more, prior to his family's move to Gondar. He pauses. I've been thinking, maybe I should write a book, about all those moves.

Pretty impressive idea for such a private person. You'd be good at that, I tell him. Especially since you've been through things no one else has. He faces me with that intense glance of his. What do you mean?

He's not looking for me to tell him something new, of course. He's testing me. Not as a rebellious teenager, but as someone who has been through so much, he's almost given up believing that anyone else could get it. Especially a Western immigrant like me, with my light skin and state-recognized diplomas.

Well, you're different from most of the other people around here, I continue. For one thing, you come from a different place, and you can't hide that. Everyone sees it, right away.

Now T is staring. What else? he says, waiting, so I continue.

Beyond that, you've been through all of this. You know what to expect -- the treatments, the tests, the pain, the complications. You understand the threat hanging over your head, better than you ever did before. I pause. But there's one more thing, the most important thing of all.

He looks astounded, transfixed.

You're different from other people. Your personality is different. You see the people around you; you see a lot and you notice things. But you don't jump to open your mouth and talk about it. You keep your observations to yourself, until you know you can trust someone, and then -- maybe -- you share your thoughts with that person.

His expression says it all: This revelation, this conversation, is the real thing. This person might just get it, just a little... so maybe sharing one's inner thoughts and feelings is worth the occasional risk.

(It's a risk for me, too, not having a direct way of understanding T's thought patterns until he -- or I -- voice them. A serious misreading of his emotional and cognitive process would only have further isolated him by enforcing his belief that others cannot understand him).

Later on, I offer to help T start the writing process by typing into the computer as he narrate. He hesitates. As with everything else, he wants to think about it first, on his own, and get back to me.

We agree to discuss the option the next time we meet.

Keep the balance,

ALN

HH #194 - Counting Down (or Up, Rather) to 200

2008-12-08T20:51:00.002+02:00

I missed it, but you shouldn't.... HH #194 over at Shiloh Musings. Enjoy!

ALN

Occupation As Balance

2008-12-07T23:20:00.010+02:00

(No, not that kind of occupation. I truly, honestly do not know how to address that topic in this forum, or with which vocabulary, and so I leave it aside).

Why I don't call my good friends more often than I do? This evening I picked up the phone and dialed my friend N, and rediscovered how fantastic, how comforting it is to have those conversations and compare the day-to-day... The freshly-discovered gutter leak in the newly-purchased house; the parallel laments over negligent school systems long-overdue for an over-haul; our mutual agreement that the Obamas' extended family support system will only benefit them as a young, busy, professional couple preparing for the next busy stage in their lives... and on and on.

The conversation reaches that inevitable topic: work, motherhood, how to do it all and keep the guilt minimal, the multi-tasking maximal, and everything in between relaxed and stable enough to keep everyones' lives together and whole and enjoyable.

N works a much longer day than I do and gives her husband A a lot of credit for his super-husband abilities, especially in recent years, but reminds me of what it takes to reach household stability. Sometimes one of them is down, sometimes the other. But they know to take it in turns. Both she and A cannot both let themselves feel drained.

Or, as N put it, If that space is occupied in the house, then I know I can't be there... That is, she understands she has to stay upbeat and hold on to the energy level until A can get it back again, and then she can let her end drop a bit and let him pick up the slack.

It's not always going to happen. Within our own four walls, I know there's no guarantee that the two of us aren't going to hit some kind of simultaneous slump; it just might happen, and it sometimes does. We both get tired, cranky, past our peak. Then maybe it's time, as it was last night, to just go upstairs and hang the laundry together, instead of trying to figure out whose turn it is.

Occupation as balance? Maybe, if we can just hang on and take it in turns. Hang in there, N.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Live: Parlor Meeting with a Candidate for Head of Our Regional Council

2008-12-01T20:56:00.017+02:00

Here's democracy in action.

I'm sitting in my neighbor's living room, and about 30 additional neighbors have joined us here to meet with Moshe Dadon, a candidate for our local Regional Council (mo'etza). Unlike the major cities, where voting took place a few weeks ago, our area goes to the polls in January to choose its new Regional Council members.

Moshe grew up in the area (Moshav Luzit) and has served as the Regional Council secretary for the past four years, so he knows the system from the inside. He described growing up among the chicken coops, and seeing the agriculture lifestyle fall by the wayside as the years went by. The area's needs now are completely different; he noted that much of the moshav property formerly used for agriculture is now factories.

Moshe describes himself as "very green - not in terms of money, but the environment" (It wasn't clear what he means by this, as some of his later statements indicated that he has a poor understanding of certain environmental issues). He understands that many people are flocking to the moshav expansions for the quality of life, and are not agriculturally minded. He realizes that municipality taxes have been rising, but are not nearly at Jerusalem levels, and that all the local illegal building is only hurting all the citizens because they cannot benefit from improvements if local tax money is not being put back into the system.

Moshe pledges the following:

1. Taxes collected locally, stay local. All tax monies collected for the moshav expansions (of which there are many) will go directly back into moshav coffers.

2. Sliding scale taxation. Everyone should pay arnona, including residential buildings, local businesses, quarries and other industrial properties, according to their ability. Anyone who qualified for a discount will receive one accordingly. The Arab sector, which has been neglected until now, will also receive the amount entitled by law.

3. Financial independence. The general dependence on the system for financial support is unjustified and has to be changed. Every community can then become independent and make its own decisions according to its needs.

4. Infrastructure. By law, 5% of tax money collected by the Regional Council is designated for internal development; that means 12 million shekels has to be distributed every year to the local municipal governments, for use as they see fit.

5. Primary Education. The local educational system should be run locally, by a professional with a doctorate in education. Most of the local population is religious, and any new local school would have to be religious and include all the children in the surrounding local moshavim. Until now, our religious school system has not provided a good education, period, and many families send their kids to a different school district.

6. Secondary Education. High schools in the area have been closing, but the local population is growing and we'll need to develop a series of local high schools here in the area. Competition is good for education, as it is for everything else. By law, only the head of the Regional Council is entitled to choose where kids go to school. At this time we have 4000 high school students, and the system doesn't have room for new students, even if it were a good system and people were willing to send their kids.

7. Transportation to School. For now, funding from other budgets, such as the building budget, to fund school buses for local kids. There is no governmentally funded option for transportation for high school-age pupils. Children need to go to good schools, locally, such that there won't be a need for transportation. School buses are a temporary measure until we have good schools in the area. Pupils can't succeed if they spend hours on buses, and there's no equal opportunities for all citizens until we have quality local schools for everyone. We don't have time to wait.

When it was pointed out that building all these schools will take time, he didn't have a clear answer, except to improve the existing schools. One neighbor offered a temporary solution of not having kids for the next few years, which got a few laughs but underlined the seriousness of the issue. Moshe grew up in the system, continued to be involved in the local education system after his high school graduation, and sends his kids to the local schools, so he is aware, from the inside, of just how bad it is.

When asked about the decision making powers of the local municipality versus the Council regarding expansion issues, he spoke in favor of allowing the municipal council to receive tax monies and make most local decisions. Regarding division of properties, especially public and moshav properties, he cited a local example of a town within the region that wanted to build a swimming pool with public develop monies, and the Regional Council refused to grant permission.

A participant described one local conflict regarding the use and upkeep of moshav property, an issue which has put residents of our Moshav extension at odds with the decision-makers of the moshav's municipal council, with no legal redress... As this neighborbor pointed out, this type of conflict usually stays on a minor and limited level, but the same problems tend to repeat themselves, and our current expansion has only brought the issue to the fore. Moshe did not provide a clear answer regarding this issue.

Regarding the protection of nature conservancies, Moshe supports expanding into parts of those ares for the benefit of the local populations. He cited the building of a new school as one example.

Moshe has pledged to bring educated, reliable and honest workers into the Regional Council, and here he was asked regarding the type of people he would, indeed, bring with him. (It has been said that our local government has become bulky and corrupt over the years, and I can testify to the number and quality of shiny cars in the parking lot).

Moshe responded by pointing out that there is one person in the regional government overseeing all 180 local kindergartens in the region, with a similar situation for the primary schools... "No one person is a workhorse." A neighbor responded with cynicism, that the only department in the council that returns phone calls is the Collection Department. Generally, those present at the meeting did not express satisfaction with the so-called reforms he claims to have made until now.

Moshe referred to a total rearrangement of the governing system, especially the educational system, and that in his view this includes, among other things, encouraging older workers to retire, and having others transfer to departments where they are needed. "If one doctor is no good, do you blame all the doctors?"

He continued to refer to poor air quality, although he offered no clear solutions. Prior to this, he claimed not to understand the connection between electricity and the quality of the environment. Regarding a specific road in the area which has been declared unsafe and whose legal status has remained unclear for years (the road remains open but the police sometimes distributes tickets to those who travel on it), he offered no clear answer, except to point out that the Regional Council has been trying to resolve the issue.

Moshe's closing statement (summary): We have the opportunity to develop the area, to give everyone an opportunity and quality of life. The problem is not as other candidates will tell you, that this or that individual bureaucrat is responsible. The money is the issue. If we want to develop the area, our money has to go to the right places; quality education for everyone, and local development.

* * * * *

On Wednesday, another candidate will be coming to impress us.... stay tuned.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Back from Be'er Sheva

2008-11-30T23:13:00.003+02:00

I have every intention to continue posting about my recent three-day inservice down south, despite having returned several days ago... what can I do? Life has continued -- studies, work, family -- it's all still there, but the stories I heard at Beit Yatziv are waiting to be told. Stick around...

ALN