My Unfriendly Shul Story

My Unfriendly Shul Story

(inspired by Treppenwitz’s post, ”The Unfriendliest Shul in the World”)

Some years ago, I decided to try a synagogue that, while adhering to halakha (Jewish religious law), made efforts to increase the participation of women in the service. For example, after the Torah scroll is removed from the Ark, a woman carries it through the women’s section, and then a man carries it through the men’s section. In this way, all congregants, men and women alike, have the opportunity to kiss the Torah scroll as it is carried to the reading table.

One Shabbat morning, I was asked to carry the Torah scroll through the women’s section, an honor that I gladly accepted. When it was time, I took the Torah scroll in my arms and carried it down the main aisle, from the front of the room to the rear, as I had been told to do.

I was about halfway down the aisle when I noticed a small group of women gathered in the rear of the women’s section. I didn’t recognize them, and it seemed to me that they looked a little lost. I figured that they must be guests or perhaps new to the area. Thinking that it would be good to reach out to them a little, I walked a few steps away from the main aisle and brought the Torah scroll directly to them to kiss. Then I turned around, retraced my steps to the mehitzah [the divider between the men’s and women’s sections] and handed the Torah scroll to the man who would take it through the men’s section. My extra walk to and from the group of women took no more than several seconds – a very small price to pay, I thought, for making them feel welcome. Since I hadn’t caused any delay in the service, surely no one would have a problem with what I had done – or so I thought.

After the service, one of the women who had been at the back of the room approached me. She said that she and her friends were new to the area and thanked me for having carried the Torah scroll to them. It had meant so much, she said.

At almost the same time, one of the women in charge of the synagogue gave me a quiet reprimand. The next time I was given the opportunity to carry the Torah through the women’s section, she said, I was to carry it straight down the aisle, not turning to the right or to the left.

I told her about the woman at the back of the room – how lost she and her friends had looked, and how she had thanked me for carrying the Torah to them. “Doesn’t that mean anything?” I asked. “It was only a few seconds, no more. I didn’t delay the service at all, and they felt so much better.”

The woman only repeated: “When you carry the Torah, you must carry it straight down the aisle.”

Well, I figured, this lady certainly has her priorities in order....

Post-Shabbat Roundup

Post-Shabbat Roundup

So... this motza’ei Shabbat (Saturday night; post-Sabbath), here’s what I’ve done so far:

• Baked a batch of sourdough pita bread (the dough was already risen by Shabbat and had spent Shabbat in the refrigerator)
• Made a batch of soap
• Poured the liquid laundry soap that I made several days ago into its proper containers (for more information on making homemade laundry soap, see here, here and here, and see here for the recipe that I use)
• Tore a bunch of newspaper for Kitten’s litter box (big advantages: no dust, no tracking and it’s free; slight disadvantage: it takes some time and effort)

Whew! Time for bed, I think. Shavua tov!

A Visit to the Sunbirds

A Visit to the Sunbirds

Pssst! Wanna see a sunbird nest? Wanna see some baby chicks? Wanna see Mama and Papa Sunbird feeding their baby chicks?

OK. I’ll show you.

Papa Sunbird feeds the babies:

Mama Sunbird feeds the babies:

The babies in the nest:

You can see the rest of the set here.

Fed Poetry

Fed Poetry

Just over a week ago, I went to hear the poet Mark Strand at the American Cultural Center here in Jerusalem. (Thank goodness for Facebook, which is how I found out about the reading. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known about it.)

It so happens that Mark Strand is the author of one of my very favorite poems, “Eating Poetry.” So of course I had to go!

(Click the link above and go read the poem. Then come back here for the rest of the story, if you’re so inclined. But read the poem! Please! Now!)

The reading was wonderful. Mark Strand read some of his older poems and some of his new work, which he said leaned more toward prose than poetry these days. I enjoyed it all, but throughout the reading I waited for him to read “Eating Poetry.” Finally, he announced that he would be reading the last poem of the evening, and when he began it, my heart sank a little. It was lovely, but it wasn’t the poem that I’d been waiting for.

But then – ah, saving grace! The emcee announced a question-and-answer period. I raised my hand immediately, and Mark Strand turned to me with a smile and asked, “What’s your question?”

“Not a question but a favor,” I said. “I’ve loved your poem, ‘Eating Poetry,’ for many years. I studied it in school when I was younger. Please, would you read it for us?”

Even as I asked the question, it occurred to me that I probably wasn’t the only one who asked for this poem at his readings. Perhaps he had read it thousands of times already and was tired of it. Perhaps he thought that here, in far-off Jerusalem, he would escape having to read it aloud yet again. My breath caught. I know that we American expats need hutzpah to survive around here, but had I gone too far?

There was no need to worry. Mark Strand smiled and said, “Yes,” picked up the book of his poems that he had been reading from, found the poem inside and, stepping toward me on the stage, began to read.

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry....

I sat looking up at him, taking in every word. I can’t quite describe the feeling... it was almost as though the poem, which I was hearing from the poet himself after so many years, became a cord of light that stretched along the sound of his voice to me. I was smiling so hard that my cheeks hurt. There were tears in my eyes. I didn’t want it to end.

In that moment, there was no happiness like mine. I was being fed poetry.

Professor Strand, if you ever read this: at your reading in Jerusalem last May, you gave this American expat a gift of joy that I will always remember. Thank you, with all my heart.

The Lovely Miss A.

The Lovely Miss A.

Recently, I had the honor of cat-sitting for the lovely Miss A. Here are two photos of her.

At rest, from close up:

Miss A. on the move:

The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.

Purrs in Translation

Purrs in Translation

The following article is a translation from a Hebrew article that a friend showed me. I translated it just because, and then sent my translation to the author, Yael Yisrael, who approved it for publication. So... here it is! Hebrew speakers can read the original here.

Kitty Pr0n

by Yael Yisrael

One afternoon as I dozed on the sofa, my ginger cat snoring contentedly on my stomach, my friend suddenly telephoned and started yelling in my ear: “Turn on the TV!” I thought that the Third Lebanon War had just broken out. “They’re showing a cat playing the piano!” she went on breathlessly. That was it for my siesta. I quickly turned on Rafi Reshef, my hands trembling on the remote, so that I wouldn’t miss the up-and-coming piano star.

Look, folks, I have to be up front about this, uncomfortable as it is. Have you noticed that we cat lovers are a bit obsessed? How many times have you gotten frantic messages to turn on the TV because some kitty genius was on the news? How many emails a day do you get from other cat-lovers with videos of the latest wonder-cat on YouTube, or with a link to the hottest new cat site? Honestly, just between us, how many?

Shall I tell you how many I get in a day? Dozens! I’m not kidding. My inbox is flooded with them. And you’d better believe that I open each and every one of them with the dedication of an obsessed stamp collector, shrieking with joy to the sound of meows like Bar Rafaeli did when Leo got down on his knees and gave her the ring.

But what drives us cat-lovers wild are the kitten sites. We send them around to each other like there’s no tomorrow. We can’t wait to watch the videos of those tiny two-month-old fuzzballs posing with careless abandon on their little fur rugs. Sometimes I feel just like those creepy men who stare at half-naked fourteen-year-old girls on sleazy websites as I gaze greedily at the endless photos for collectors of “kitty pr0n,” wanting every one of those furbabies for myself.

For us cat lovers, the Internet fulfills our deepest, most unattainable fantasies of having a “cathouse” of our very own, with each new website becoming the latest hit. And the stronger the obsession, the more videos we watch on the Net.

Ever hear of StuffOnMyCat.com? It has countless pages of photographs uploaded by surfers who cover their gorgeous cats with things like jewelry, hats, baby clothes, neckties, toy animals and so on – silly, harmless stuff. The hard-core ones put stuff on their cats such as cellular phones, pocket knives, books and laptops. One woman even put her whole collection of nail polish jars in a row on her poor cat, who must have had no clue as to why he was being covered in the local drugstore’s entire cosmetics department.

We cat-lovers surf these sites with bated breath, drooling over the baby-faced, wide-eyed fur-models that melt our hearts. Please excuse the R-rated imagery, but let’s be honest: that’s exactly how it is. We crave their plump little bodies, their silky fur, the sweetness of their touch. And unless we hug, kiss and pet them a thousand times, we feel that our day has been a waste. Let’s face it, folks: we’re addicted.

Cat addiction is the most pleasant, positive and harmless addiction on earth. I’ve tried several others: wild shopping sprees at the duty-free, many-layered dobos tortes, some unsavory guys, and a few other kinds best not mentioned. But I would swear in front of the clerk of the Supreme Court that becoming addicted to those furry, big-hearted creatures is life’s greatest pleasure. It’s better than a five-star hotel in Thailand. Better than a luxury bed-and-breakfast in the Galilee. Even better than a night with your favorite movie star.

Now I’ll try to explain all this to those who got here by accident and don’t understand this strange obsession, to everyone who thinks that cat-lovers are a bunch of weirdos who threaten society as we know it. Here’s the thing: we are addicted to those magnificent, good-hearted furry creatures because they give us so much love in return. As much as you give to them, they give back double. Cats don’t deserve their reputation as selfish loners. Most of the time, they want to be close to you, and they want to make you feel good. They long to cuddle on your lap, and their goal is to love you unconditionally forever and ever and ever. Of course, they expect the same level of devotion from you. Give them that and they will be the sweetest, most devoted lovers you’ve ever had.

Busy, Busy, Busy

Busy, Busy, Busy

I thought that things would calm down at the end of the winter, when my friend came home from the hospital. They didn’t.

I thought that things would calm down over the Passover holiday, but I got a cat-sitting gig, so they didn’t. (Pictures to come.) On top of that, I did a few hikes and trips. (Pictures to come.)

For now, the seventh day of Passover is almost upon us – together with my Hebrew birthday. Yup – according to the Hebrew calendar, I was born the night of the splitting of the Red Sea.

Thanks so much for all the birthday wishes! See you after the holiday.

Here’s a nice yellow wildflower that I photographed just outside the Old City a few days ago:

And for good measure, some scarlet pimpernels:

Sandy Cash Sings the Blues

Sandy Cash Sings the Blues

The Egyptian Revolution Blues, that is. Be sure to watch the video to the end.

Sandy’s posted the lyrics here.

All Hail!

All Hail!

It hailed in Jerusalem today.

Actually, it hailed in shifts. Here, the hail comes down:

I picked up a few hailstones and held them in my hand. Wow, were they ever cold!

After the hail, a rainbow!

The other side of the rainbow:

Under the Weather

Under the Weather

Almost literally. I feel like it’s sitting on me.

Just as winter began to step up and we got more rain (yay!) and wind, I started to feel a bit out of focus. Then, yesterday at work, I started to get the feeling that I always get when my temperature begins to climb. Oh, great, I thought. Here comes the flu. I don’t have time to be sick. But germs wait for no woman, it seems.

I headed home, took my temperature (which was normal, strangely enough) and called my doctor. Even though her schedule was full, someone cancelled an appointment yesterday evening, so she slipped me in.

Diagnosis: not the flu, thank goodness. I have a sinus infection. My bronchial tubes are also involved. I’m currently on antibiotics and two (!) inhalers, with strict orders not to stir out of doors until Wednesday. Don’t go from one temperature extreme to the other, my doctor said. No going from hot to cold or vice versa. When I asked my doctor whether I was contagious, her answer was an unequivocal yes. She also explained that this type of infection can make people feel feverish even when they’re not.

It’s taken me more than the usual effort to write this post. I feel like my head is encased in wet cotton wool. (In fact, one of the things I told my doctor on the phone yesterday was, “I want my head back!” It made her laugh.) This is such a drag. I want it gone. Now.

But my doctor says that it will take its sweet time leaving. In the meantime, keep on dosing and lots of fluids and rest. Sigh. Think I’ll go make myself another cup of tea.

I hate being sick.

Rats.

Hearing My Music

Hearing My Music

When I recorded Day of Rest back in the spring of 2000, I sang all the tracks, melody and harmony, myself. Not only was it fun to sing all the parts, building each song line by vocal line, but there were also practical reasons. Where would I find a small chamber choir and the time to train them? Not to mention the question of how I would pay them all.

Several years ago, after “Day of Rest” had been out for some time, I reconnected with an old friend from high school. Both he and his wife are accomplished musicians. It turns out that in addition to her many other skills, his wife is an amazing choral director as well. When I met them in Israel before their aliya, I gave them a copy of “Day of Rest,” never dreaming what would happen next.

My friend’s wife – now my friend as well – contacted me recently and asked for permission to use three of my arrangements for a choral performance at a local school that she was directing. I agreed. Tonight, I attended the performance. For the first time in my life, I heard my arrangements through the prism of my friend’s impeccable musicianship, sung by the lovely and gifted young women of her choir.

Before the choral part of the performance began, my friend announced that the arranger of three of the pieces that her choir was about to sing was present and that she would introduce her later on. In the meantime, said my friend, you can guess where the arranger is. She could be anywhere in this room. Could she be sitting next to you?

If the room hadn’t been so dark, it would have been easy to spot me once the choir began to sing the first of the three songs I had arranged. I was the one sitting there smiling, singing softly... and fighting back tears.

Rain Outside, Leak Inside

Rain Outside, Leak Inside

It’s raining! Finally, the winter’s here. I’ll post pics as I can get them.

Last night, just before I went to bed, two things happened: it started to hail (or sleet, I’m not sure which) and I discovered a leaky pipe in the bathroom.

Now, I can change a leaky pipe just fine. But when I tried to close the faucet leading to the toilet tank, it wouldn’t budge. I applied some WD-40, put a cloth around it and tried to turn it gently with a plumber’s wrench. No dice – and I wasn’t about to try to push it.

So I put a bucket under the leak and went to bed to flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder. This morning, I called the plumber. He’ll be on his way sometime before noon. Luckily, I can get some work done at home, so the morning won’t be a total loss. And the leak isn’t that bad. Through the night, it did little more than cover the bottom of the bucket.

And it’s raining. It’s raining.

It’s raining!

Help! I’m About to Be Devoured by a Kittymonster!

Help! I’m About to Be Devoured by a Kittymonster!

Oh, all right. I’ll come clean: I’m actually about to be cuddled, just as soon as His Fuzziness finishes yawning.

The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.

And I Never Knew

And I Never Knew

When I was a student at the Junior School of the The Neighborhood Playhouse School of the Theatre back in the early 1980s, one of my teachers was Irma Jurist-Neverow. We called her Miss Jurist. She taught singing and performance, and I enjoyed her classes very much.

Occasionally, Miss Jurist would mention some of the things that she was working on at the time. I still remember how she demonstrated how the actor playing one character in her play should call out the name of another. But when I asked her for more information about the play, she wouldn’t give any. That was understandable because the play wasn’t yet published. Still, I sensed that there was more to Miss Jurist than met the eye.

It wasn’t until many years later, thanks to the Internet, that I found out that Miss Jurist was a noted composer, had had a television and a radio show, and released, together with Leonard Elliot, a novelty record album, Fuzzy Peach Pie and Other Lunacies, an erudite parody of classical music.

Here’s the review from Billboard, dated November 30, 1959:

There’s a takeoff on Menotti’s operas here that alone is worth the price of this disc. Many of the other musical satires included are also hilariously successful, and even those that don’t quite make it are good fun. One needn’t be a musical sophisticate to enjoy the broad takeoffs on German lieder, canonic music, show tunes, etc. Leonard Elliot and Irma Jurist render this mad mish-mash with no holds barred.

But Miss Jurist composed serious music as well, as I recently found out. Here is Nina Simone singing “The July Tree,” (lyrics: Eve Merriam; music: Irma Jurist):

I recently found out that Miss Jurist died approximately three years ago at the age of 94. (Some years ago, I tried, unsuccessfully, to make contact with her.) I don’t know whether she would have remembered me, since she taught thousands of students at the Neighborhood Playhouse, from which she retired in 2001 at the age of 89.

I have so many memories of Miss Jurist from our classes at The Neighborhood Playhouse: how she spoke about performing, how she accompanied us when we sang, how she told stories, and the Hanukkah play that she wrote about Hannah and her seven sons (I still have vivid memories of my schoolmate, Andrea, who was in the class above mine at the Neighborhood Playhouse, in the role of Hannah). Miss Jurist also composed one of the most beautiful Christmas carols that I have ever heard in my life. It’s a shame that the song isn’t out there; I feel that it ought to be.

(And in case anyone out there is willing to help make it so, I still have the four-part arrangement that I created for it in my senior year of high school, when I was studying music theory. When I asked Miss Jurist whether I could attempt the arrangement, she said, “If you want to.” When I showed it to her the next week, she said, “I didn’t think you could do it – but you did!”)

I wish I’d had a chance to ask Miss Jurist how it felt to set Eve Merriam’s lyrics to music and have Nina Simone record the song. I’d been right about her all those years ago: there was so much more to her than met the eye. But back then, it was just a guess.

Miss Jurist was so much more than the teacher I looked forward to seeing every Saturday morning... and I never knew.

Photo Sales Redux

Photo Sales Redux

[rant on]

Recently, I got yet another request to allow the publication of a photo of mine in a periodical in exchange for credit. The person who wrote to me explained that the periodical had no budget for contributors. I sent back a polite note saying that I would be happy to allow the use of my photo in exchange for a reasonable fee.

The reply to my email said, in effect: All right, we won’t use your photo, then, and that was the end of it.

But later, on a whim, I looked up the name of the person who had written to me. Turns out that she is a freelance writer with a web page that advertises her services.

Well, I thought, that’s interesting. Here we have a freelancer who charges for her services, but feels fine asking others to give theirs away for free. Then I thought: Hey, be fair. Maybe she volunteers her services for that publication.

Well, if so, then that’s laudable. Many of us donate our time and skills to causes that we cherish. But as I see it, there’s a big difference between doing so of our own free will and being asked to do so by a person we’ve never met. Why should I give away my work for free just because the article in question is about a cause I value?

I’m starting to think that the next time someone asks me for the use of a photograph in exchange for credit, I will say something like this:

“Sure, I’ll let you use my photo in exchange for credit... as long as it’s the same kind of credit that the banks, utility companies and supermarkets will accept. If that isn’t what you had in mind, then please do us both a favor and don’t waste my time. And what is this issue of giving credit, anyway? What value does it have, except for expressing, at best, a vague hope that perhaps someone else at some unknown point in the future will pay me for my work instead of you? Will that make your conscience feel better? Nope, sorry, I don’t think I feel like dying of exposure today. When you’re willing to give me value for my work in negotiable currency, then we can talk. Until then, have a nice day, and don’t let the door hit you in the rear on your way out.”

[rant off]

The Carmel Relief Fund

The Carmel Relief Fund

Click here to give to the Carmel Relief Fund via Israel Gives. The page also has real-time updates about the fire and relief efforts.

A Visit to the Temple Mount

A Visit to the Temple Mount

Recently, I visited the Temple Mount for the first time in my life. My guide is extremely knowledgeable, and my visit there was fascinating. We were there for well over two hours, and on the way out, my guide told me: I probably haven’t given you even a tenth of the information that’s available.

Here are several of the photos that I took up there.

Light and shadow in the new (and supposedly temporary) passage to the Mughrabi Gate:

Capitals from columns from various eras:

Light and shadow from the crenellations along the eastern wall of the Temple Mount:

My guide pointed out damage from a power saw on this column of pink marble:

There is currently a court order in effect that any debris removed from the Temple Mount must be accompanied by an archaeologist. But the Waqf, in its zeal to erase any evidence of Jewish presence from the Temple Mount, evades this order simply by not removing the debris, but leaving it there, or redistributing it in various places on the Mount.

Another waste pile with possible archaeological finds:

According to my guide, these olive trees are hundreds of years old. Some of them are perhaps as much as a thousand years old. They were being harvested when we were there. Imagine eating olives, or using olive oil, from a thousand-year-old olive tree.

Approaching the Dome of the Rock under a clear blue Jerusalem sky. (No, we didn’t go in. Non-Muslims haven’t been allowed inside the Dome of the Rock in a decade.)

The rear of a mihrab (a structure whose function is to point the way to Mecca, the direction of prayer for Muslims) with an uprooted tree

My guide told me that sarcophagi were often reused as water troughs. Here is one example just outside one of the gates leading to the Temple Mount:

See the rest of the set here.

For RivkA

For RivkA

On my way home from some errands yesterday, I passed the front yard of a building that had something in it that made me laugh. I thought of taking a picture of it, and then thought: How can I think of taking pictures now, with RivkA....

I began to walk away. I hadn’t gone two steps when I heard RivkA’s voice in my mind, loud and clear, saying, “Oh, take the picture!”

So I did. Here it is.

RivkA, this is for you. I hope that wherever you are, you can see it and have a chuckle.

Barukh Dayyan ha-Emet

Barukh Dayyan ha-Emet

(Hebrew: “Blessed be the true Judge” – the blessing recited upon hearing news of a death)

RivkA is gone.

I took this photo at RivkA’s son’s bar mitzvah. This is how I remember her: positive, optimistic, joyful.

This is how I saw her during one of the first times that I met her many years ago. She was dancing and smiling and singing, so full of life. This is how I will always remember her.

Please see her blog, Coffee and Chemo, for funeral information.

May RivkA’s family, and all who loved her, be comforted among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.

Praying Hard...

Praying Hard...

... for my friend RivkA – Rivka bat Teirtzel.