Day and Night

The plane descended, submerging us into a thick gray cloud. Then, as if that were not enough, we entered a second set of gray clouds, much like double doors in a high-security building.  We were now officially socked in, severed from the bright sunshine above, and locked into a land where shadows barely appear. Welcome to England.

I had prepared myself for this grayness. Living in Israel, where the sun flexes its muscles across a bright blue sky, fingers sketching deep shadows and definition across desert and mountains, I knew this sojourn into grayness was temporary. After months of intense Israeli heat, I felt a week of gray could be, well, an anomaly and I decided to become a ‘weather tourist.’This was liberating in a way as I did not feel distressed by the bad English weather and, as an outsider to this palette of gray, I started to think about how this climate affects the English culture.  

As I stood on the train platform that day, I noticed a sliver of sun did manage to sneak past the high security cloud cover, softly resting upon a pale, wan cheek. Seconds later, it was quickly masked by yet another bank of cloud. How cruel, I thought.

When I davened the next morning, I understood one of my morning blessings in a new light (forgive the pun). Every day in the Birkat Hashahar, we ask to understand the difference between day and night and I had always interpreted this as seeking knowledge to differentiate between good and evil. But, as I sat with my prayer book in hand the next morning and looked outside, I was confused. It was 8 am, but where was the light? It could have been 5 am or 11 am or 7 pm. There really was no huge distinction between day and night. I felt I was stuck in an ‘in between’ place, where it is neither markedly day nor night; a place of confusion and of not really knowing where I am and where I stand.

As the day progressed, and the skies curdled and thickened, I kept this thought in mind. Since the English seem to exist in a state of semi-darkness, perhaps they behave accordingly. In this country, I never really know where I stand with people. Is it because they are afraid to reveal their true emotions? Were they really happy? Bothered? Content? Fulfilled? I could not read this on their faces or discern it from conversation. My sincere queries were often met with British humor, which confused me even more. Were they being serious? Were they joking? Were they irritated? Were they feeling pain?

And then I thought about Israel, the land of hot sunny days and ink black nights; a place where people wear their emotions on their sleeves. No gray. The emotional weather in Israel is visibly happy and filled with hugs, kisses and loud chatter, or sad, heavy with tears and audible weeping. It can be anger with black, smoldering words. If someone wants me to leave, I am dismissed immediately. If they are irritated, they tell me. I am not left guessing. With eight months of sunny skies, where a single cloud is a trespasser, our weather is direct and definitive.  And when the rains do come, thank G-d, they are thunderous and plentiful. Nothing in Israel is insipid.

In Israel, we know the routine and we are not hiding it from anyone.

Chaval al ha'zman

Ohhhmm. It has been decided that I need to chill. Mellow. Unwind. “Mom, take a chill pill,” my kids say.

As for my husband, well, he has perfected this part of his life—and he owes this peace of mind to meditation. He eats lunch, davens mincha and then heads off to meditate. Every day. Our Golden Retriever is an ideal contemplation companion; the dog is so silent and mellow, he could pass for a shag rug—even if a cat were nearby. Every afternoon, the two of them retreat to a cool, darkened room and practise tranquility.

I am always too busy to make time to meditate; yet if I made time to meditate, maybe I would not feel too busy.

I decided to research this hypothesis and try meditating. I entered the room that afternoon accompanied as always by a frantic energy. The dog must have sniffed my sizzling electrical current as he gave a forlorn sigh then rolled onto his side. Here I was, determined to silence my chattering mind and arrest my flickering thoughts. 

I lay down and started to breathe deeply, trying to calm each part of my body: my legs, back, arms. Deep breathing in. Slow exhales out. My fingers, my neck, heavy, soft. I was actually feeling drowsy, hushed, still. My head, jaw, mouth. I loosened my jaw and upon breathing in, I sat bolt upright and bellowed, “The dental hygienist. How could I forget?”

The guru husband stayed inert in his deep contemplative state. The guru dog opened one brown eye in disapproval, then buried his nose in his fluffy tail.  I slapped my cheeks to become alert and grabbed my watch. 1:10 pm. I remembered that I had an appointment for 1:00. I stood upright and raced across the room to get my phone, dialed the dentist, was told that I could still make it, brushed and flossed, flew down the stairs and ran out the front door. I was blinded by the blazing sun, blinking in shock at the intense heat.

I arrived at the dentist frantic, nervous, sweaty and breathless. And when I slipped into the dental chair and lay way, way, back, I thought ‘hmmm, this could be the perfect spot to meditate.’ Shielding myself from the bright spot light, I closed my eyes and went a little deeper.

“Open wide,” the hygienist ordered. I popped my mouth open like a baby bird. A steel instrument probed, the suction tube suctioned and then her cell phone rang. Much to my surprise, she answered it. And then she had a long conversation with a friend, leaving my mouth agape while the suction tube suctioned. Was I expecting professionalism? Here in Israel?

“It’s my birthday,” she explained, repositioning the suction tube.

“Mazal Tov,” I winced as she scraped, scratched and probed.

“We are going out to dinner tonight. To celebrate.”

“Shounds shlike fun,” I sloshed back, understanding that this was not a good place to meditate. I almost expected an invitation to her birthday dinner.

She hummed and sang and prodded and flossed. And then she said, “Yesh lach shinayim chaval al ha’zman.” If I were to translate this literally, it would be something like ‘your teeth are a waste of time.’ Now that’s either a back-handed compliment or a shocking insult. But I knew better because here in Israel, everything is backwards: writing, reading, the dates—and compliments. She really said I have super awesome teeth.

I left and my mind buzzed as I rushed along the busy street, thinking about everything I had to do. I realized that I seriously can’t find the time to meditate and concluded that I am not chilled. But I have clean teeth and they are chaval al ha’zman. 

Zman Simchateinu

On Tuesday, I took apart my sukkah. I pulled down my decorations, rolled up the bamboo roof, slid the white cotton fabric off the poles, then washed and neatly folded them.  I swept up the area where our sukkah stood, gathering pieces of tinsel into a neat pile. 

After a week full of singing, dining, and gathering with friends, our stone courtyard looked empty, hollow, quiet. A cool wind rustled fallen leaves, marking the end of a season. It was time to return to a routine; back to school, back to work, back to all those things we put off until “after the chagim.”

Many people in Israel took time off for the chagim. They had quality family time, fun outings, toured the country and simply
enjoyed life. It is no surprise that Sukkot is
also called zman simchateinu, a time of
rejoicing; and it is no surprise that Israel is a happy country.

In fact, this hot, dusty, tiny country that is surrounded by enemies ranks #12 on the
World Map of Happiness. And in the newest OECD (the Organisation for Economic 
Co-operation and Development) Better Life Index Report, Israel ranks #6. This is higher than
Finland, Australia, Canada and Sweden and the wealthy US, which ranked #11.

Here is what the study found:

6. Israel
> Life satisfaction score: 7.4
> Employment rate: 60% (11th lowest)
> Self-reported good health: 81% (7th highest)
> Employees working long hours: 18.92% (3rd highest)
> Disposable income: n/a
> Educational attainment: 82% (tied-12th highest)
> Life expectancy: 81.7 years (6th highest)

Israelis have a life expectancy of 81.7 years — sixth highest among OECD nations. The country also has a low obesity rate of 13.8%, while 81% of those surveyed report their health to be “good” or “very good.” By comparison, Americans’ life expectancy is 78.7 years, and they also have a higher obesity rate of 33.8% among adults. Despite the constant security concerns in the country, the homicide rate in Israel is in line with the OECD’s average of 2.1 murders per 100,000 people. In addition, 70% of Israelis surveyed feel safe walking home at night. Although Israelis work long hours, with 18.92% working at least 50 hours a week, life satisfaction remains high.

How do we understand this? Israelis work longer hours, make less money, have a high unemployment rate and are generally stressed out. They serve three years in the army and are under constant threat from enemy attacks. Israelis are often over-caffeinated, overtired, and overjoyed.

Yet Israelis have time for their families and love the simple things in life, things that do not cost a lot. They love to gather for a barbeque on the beach, take a hike on a mountain trail, chat in an outdoor cafe and bite into a falafel--as long as it is smeared with techina.

Lining up to give tzedakah Erev Yom Kippur.

They also like to give and to reach out a helping hand. The morning before Yom Kippur, a group of Israelis were seen lining up to give charity. Where else in the world does this happen? Perhaps this proves that a good life is not about getting and having; rather it is about giving and caring. And in this area, Israel scores first place. Maybe this is the secret ingredient to joy.

My sukkah is stored away for the year. It is officially after the chagim. I must get back to my routine, but I do this with a heart filled with joy.

Selichot in Jerusalem

Heavy, somber, hushed, introspective. These are the words I would use to describe the prayers that are recited every morning by the Ashkenazim starting before Rosh Hashana until Yom Kippur. (The Sephardim say Selichot a few weeks earlier, starting on Rosh Chodesh Elul.) The Selichot prayers ask for forgiveness on a community and national level. 

Rav Ovadia, the former Sephardi Chief Rabbi of Israel, called on everyone to come to the Kotel and pray together. Some 250,000 people flocked from all over Israel to stand together and pray in unison facing the Kotel, the place where every Jew’s prayer is directed. 

250,000 people gathered in the Western Wall Plaza

Sunday night, I was at the spot where all prayers are focused: the Western Wall. I have visited the Western Wall many times over the years. I have leaned against the Kotel’s warm, shiny stones on a summer’s day, squinting into my prayer book as the sun beat atop my shoulders. I have been there at sunrise as the first rays tumble over the ancient wall and I have gazed up at sunset, when the stones are softened, bathed in a golden hue.

And I have been there late at night on a few special occasions; on Yom Yerushlayim, when thousands of people gather to celebrate, waving flags, dancing through the narrow streets to the main square, singing and praying; and on Tisha B’Av where people sit on blankets and cry, reciting the mournful words of Eichah in hushed tones.

I expected a similar mood last night when I arrived for the recitation of selichot. These are the last days of the Aseret Yamim, the 10 days between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. This is known to be the time when Hashem is closest to us, most accessible to us and to our prayers. These are the days when people look inside and evaluate themselves, ask forgiveness from others and prepare to make amends for the new year. These days are spent in reflection and preparation for Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year.

Last night, as I walked towards the Old City Walls, I passed by bus upon bus releasing passengers who were swallowed into the surging crowd.  Outside Jaffa Gate, young boys stood yelling “Caparot.” On their table sat a few exhausted chickens, their feathers ruffled, their eyes sunken from a hard days’ work. How many sins have they absorbed after being thrust into the air and swung around all day long? A table with a large silver samovar offered steaming cinnamon-scented tea on the cool autumn night. The draped lights of Mamilla were twinkling, bright and festive, the stores all open, the cafes filled, the streets bursting with tourists and teens, yeshivah students and young couples.

I entered Jaffa Gate and was gathered into a throng, a pulse, a wave that swept me along with small school children, teachers trying to gather their small ducklings close by. A group of teenagers in jeans and T-shirts sat on the ancient stones of the Old City and strummed their guitars. This is what they sang.

Kabel rinat amcha sagveinu,
tahareinu nora

Accept your people's song, 
elevate and purify us.

It was well past midnight and the crowd gathered in intensity. There was laughing as friends walked arm in arm. There was devotion as people hurried towards the Kotel, their prayer books tightly held in their arms. And there was unity. 

We passed the Cardo, the wide avenue built by Hadrian 2,000 years ago after the Romans conquered and destroyed Jerusalem, meticulously overturning each stone and murdering every Jew they could find.  The Cardo was a place where the surviving Jews were strictly forbidden to enter and were beheaded on the spot if found. Today the Cardo is an archeological site sitting in silence as we hurry past.  

We walked by a thick wall that was built in the time of King Hezekaya, each stone painstakingly placed  701 BCE by terrified Jews who were trying to protect themselves against the attacking Assyrian army. Today a playground sits beside these old ruins where children gleefully fly down bright blue and yellow plastic slides.

These enemies are gone and new enemies are back. We all know about the threats from Iran, the rockets aimed at us from Lebanon and the world that sits silently and allows a tyrant to speak openly of our destruction at an international institution for peace.

We stood on a roof top to view the prayers below. The crowd was still growing. Jews young and old were mouthing ancient words, standing in freedom, asking forgiveness for all.

The words sung in the Rova by that group of teenagers still ring sweetly in my ears:

Ana becho'ach, 
g'dulat yemincha,
tatir tz'rura

Kabel rinat amcha sagveinu,
tahareinu nora

We beg thee 
with the strength and greatness of thy right arm-
Untangle our knotted fate.

Accept your people's song, 
elevate and purify us.

May we stay strong and united, may our actions and words be kind and may our prayers be intense and meaningful.

Of Swimming Pools & Tiger Tails

Shana Tova

May this be a sweet year filled with peace and understanding.

I have recently felt a bit challenged by my own lack of understanding and by the chaotic, brash and pressurized culture I find here in Israel. Like fingernails on a chalkboard, life here can grate my sensitive Canadian side and offend my polite British upbringing. And no, I am not stressed about high alerts on borders, missile threats or our imminent nuclear threat. Israel has been threatened with destruction since its independence; and the Jewish nation is so accustomed to annihilation, we have developed holidays with festive meals to celebrate our survival.

On a most mundane trivial level, I recently went to sign my son up for swimming lessons. In distant lands, one would give a child’s age and ability and be told which swimming class is available. Where I live, it is a half-day affair. I had to bring him in for a pool test. I was told to turn up at the pool at 4:30 pm on a Wednesday.

Come Wednesday, I go to the pool. It is 4:30. I am punctual. We are calm and organized and my son even has his swimming goggles and a towel. I go outside to the pool office and see a crowd of several hundred people swarming across the lawn. There are fathers in suit jackets, dads in army uniform, mothers with newborns and toddlers running through people’s legs. Hundreds of kids are standing around in their bathing suits. They are all waiting for the big test.

And then the speeches begin. The swim director introduces himself and talks about pool protocol, pool hours, swim school hours, and the big test. I look around and realize everyone is clutching a ticket. Oh no. Another scheme to trick one into assuming everything will be organized and will run smoothly. But from my recent banking experience, I know this is not true. This bodes badly.

I scour the pool area for the source of this special admittance ticket and see people mobbed around a table. A woman is handwriting names and phone numbers of all the children who want to be tested. In return, she hands out an embossed ticket with a number. I am number 73. 

I slap my forehead and realize I had better find a lawn chair. Each child will be tested singly and each test will take two minutes. Add a few minutes for mix ups and arguments and I have about 170 minutes ahead of me. My son suggests we go home and come back, but no, I am a glutton for punishment. I am here and I will see this through.

The sun glistens between the palm fronds. They are at number 23. I only know this because my son keeps running to the desk to find out the score.  Calling out numbers to keep the crowd informed would be too advanced.

The sky is amber, then orangey black like a scoop of tiger tail, that licorice-flavored ice cream I used to love as a kid when I could devour large scoops guilt free. I sigh and wonder who will magically make dinner appear at my house. They are at number 46.

People settle into their pool chairs. They chat, make phone calls, hush their babies in strollers. I feel as if I am on a ship’s deck, waiting to land at the next port.  The sky turns inky black. They are at number 68. I clutch my ticket in the darkness.

The pool director then comes out and announces that they will stop testing at number 72. Those with higher numbers will have to come back another day. He says the people with the higher number tickets did not hear his speech. Huh? I heard the speech. I was here on time. What? They are really stopping at 72? What kind of random number is that? I look at my ticket in disbelief.

Of course I have 73.  It is my bad ticket karma flaunting around like a showy peacock. Again.

I feel anger swelling. The sense of justice I wear, stiff as a shirt collar, is alerted. I feel dejected, maddened that my time is treated so cheaply.

But I quickly realize I do not have to grandstand. There are many others who are protesting, shouting, complaining, and some of them even have shiny insignias on their lapels. Besides, they are doing this way better than I could in their eloquent Hebrew. 

In the midst of this chaos, my son weaves past the crowd, slips into the pool and gets tested. Just like that. No one even asked for his ticket.

As I walked into the house later that evening, tired and hungry, my husband looked at me questioningly and was about to open his mouth. Yet when he saw my dazed face and that stunned, hypnotic look in my eyes, he decided he had better keep quiet.

I have now had time to think over this incident as well as my other recent frustrations. This may have been a test for my son, but it was also a test for me. On a logical, rational level, I could have thought of a hundred more efficient ways to organize kids’ swim classes. 

But this is deeper. 

I realize that I will never see the whole picture. We live in an imperfect, fragmented world filled with challenges. And if I expect justice and perfection, I will never be able to cope. I cannot have set notions about my reality because if something comes along to challenge my rationale, I will falter.

On Rosh Hashana, we read about a ram suddenly appearing in a thicket. This was the ram that Avraham then sacrificed. The ram’s horns, sitting on its head, are like our rationale. It is often entangled in uncertainties. But we take these horns and make them into a shofar. We then cry out. It is a primordial sound, deep and intense. It is a cry to Hashem from our fragmented lives. And it is a connection.

These times are uncertain; they always will be. But we must live on despite uncertainties. Next time I sign up my son for swim lessons, I will pack a dinner, cuddle up in a beach chair bring, and maybe I will bring along my own bathing suit. On second thought, I could convince my son to take up mahjong or baking.

G’mar Chatima Tova