Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Detour
The old man stood outside the city gates. A warm breeze passed on by and his silver beard glittered in the midday sun. The smell of incense and sacrifices filled the air. The sounds of singing and instruments were heard from afar.
As he gazed back at the hills and the olive groves, at the homes and their children, he was reminded of his recurring dreams. In the dead of night, in nightmares ever so real, the old man had seen the great city walls breached, families massacred and then the unfathomable; g-d’s Temple destroyed. He felt it was his destiny, a g-d given mission, to do all that he can to be a savior of the city and her now rebuilt temple of glory.
In the distance he now had his first glimpse of the marching legions. His body shuttered and his mind uncontrollably wandered. Quietly he prayed. He prayed that his knees would not buckle and that his voice would be heard. He hoped and wished he would withstand and soon return; both the city and he untouched.
The horses came to a halt and when the dust had settled the general dismounted his horse and slowly walked towards the old man. The old man calmly stood his ground. Undaunted he could not believe his eyes. This man of war, whose name alone placed fear in every living man. This victorious hero, who led forty five thousand men in conquering most of earth, was but only a child. Neither a scar nor a beard was visible on his adolescent face.
Suddenly, unexpected, the general stopped and bowed before the old man.
Amongst the forty five thousand men, from Egypt to India, across ten thousand miles of bloodshed and conquest, not one could remember the general ever bowing before another man.
"Your honor, why is it you bow before this mortal being?” quietly, in a surprised tone, the general’s advisor did ask.
“It is not to this formation of flesh and blood that I bow. I bow to the g-d that created him, that honored him with high priesthood and donned him in these garments. For in a dream I have seen this man. I have seen him in the very apparel he wears today. “
The general took his dream and now the meeting with the old man as an omen; a sign of good fortune. The earth beneath the old man shook as the general and his legions carried on their way; the city and its inhabitants unmolested.
Tears of relief flowed from the old man. He breathed what felt like his first honest breath of the day. He lifted his arms and face towards heaven and smiled. He no longer felt so alone. He faithfully represented his people, he embodied his bloodline. True the land would be absorbed, but in a benign conquest.
The old man reentered the city. The smell of incense now completely filled his nostrils. The sounds of singing and instruments pierced the air. He prostrated before the temple. Today, he was a witness to continuance. G-d did not turn his back on his only child.
As he gazed back at the hills and the olive groves, at the homes and their children, he was reminded of his recurring dreams. In the dead of night, in nightmares ever so real, the old man had seen the great city walls breached, families massacred and then the unfathomable; g-d’s Temple destroyed. He felt it was his destiny, a g-d given mission, to do all that he can to be a savior of the city and her now rebuilt temple of glory.
In the distance he now had his first glimpse of the marching legions. His body shuttered and his mind uncontrollably wandered. Quietly he prayed. He prayed that his knees would not buckle and that his voice would be heard. He hoped and wished he would withstand and soon return; both the city and he untouched.
The horses came to a halt and when the dust had settled the general dismounted his horse and slowly walked towards the old man. The old man calmly stood his ground. Undaunted he could not believe his eyes. This man of war, whose name alone placed fear in every living man. This victorious hero, who led forty five thousand men in conquering most of earth, was but only a child. Neither a scar nor a beard was visible on his adolescent face.
Suddenly, unexpected, the general stopped and bowed before the old man.
Amongst the forty five thousand men, from Egypt to India, across ten thousand miles of bloodshed and conquest, not one could remember the general ever bowing before another man.
"Your honor, why is it you bow before this mortal being?” quietly, in a surprised tone, the general’s advisor did ask.
“It is not to this formation of flesh and blood that I bow. I bow to the g-d that created him, that honored him with high priesthood and donned him in these garments. For in a dream I have seen this man. I have seen him in the very apparel he wears today. “
The general took his dream and now the meeting with the old man as an omen; a sign of good fortune. The earth beneath the old man shook as the general and his legions carried on their way; the city and its inhabitants unmolested.
Tears of relief flowed from the old man. He breathed what felt like his first honest breath of the day. He lifted his arms and face towards heaven and smiled. He no longer felt so alone. He faithfully represented his people, he embodied his bloodline. True the land would be absorbed, but in a benign conquest.
The old man reentered the city. The smell of incense now completely filled his nostrils. The sounds of singing and instruments pierced the air. He prostrated before the temple. Today, he was a witness to continuance. G-d did not turn his back on his only child.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Welcome Home.
I see him walk the winter worn streets. Nameless he blends amongst those that walk along and those that walk by.
He looks for the smiles and the welcoming arms. But here, within the generalization, in a home far from home, they are hard to find.
He wants to teach and inspire. But so do the others, others whose desires are resembling or even stronger then his. They sing and dance just as he does. They are even more outrageous then him.
He yearns for a news day’s challenge; a test, a quota. Things he despised until last year. But today is a continuation from yesterday and tomorrow a continuation from today.
He misses being needed as an individual; being appreciated for his caring deeds.
Was it the shining sun that gave him a name?
Was it open minded friends that made him feel heard?
Was it widened space that set him free?
The past is not coming back and that only makes the night more quiet and uneventful.
So he aimlessly continues to walk. The cold winds are new to him. Begrudgingly he looks right and left, high and low, for a place to land.
He disappears down the street. I know, shortly he will come to a stop and realize that the street light can shine directly on him. He will learn even in black one can choose a lighter or darker shade. Compliments don’t always must be received. They are better when given. He will create his own welcoming arms and embrace others.
We all want to be heard. But some times we also must listen.
If not for life, at least for our next journey.
He looks for the smiles and the welcoming arms. But here, within the generalization, in a home far from home, they are hard to find.
He wants to teach and inspire. But so do the others, others whose desires are resembling or even stronger then his. They sing and dance just as he does. They are even more outrageous then him.
He yearns for a news day’s challenge; a test, a quota. Things he despised until last year. But today is a continuation from yesterday and tomorrow a continuation from today.
He misses being needed as an individual; being appreciated for his caring deeds.
Was it the shining sun that gave him a name?
Was it open minded friends that made him feel heard?
Was it widened space that set him free?
The past is not coming back and that only makes the night more quiet and uneventful.
So he aimlessly continues to walk. The cold winds are new to him. Begrudgingly he looks right and left, high and low, for a place to land.
He disappears down the street. I know, shortly he will come to a stop and realize that the street light can shine directly on him. He will learn even in black one can choose a lighter or darker shade. Compliments don’t always must be received. They are better when given. He will create his own welcoming arms and embrace others.
We all want to be heard. But some times we also must listen.
If not for life, at least for our next journey.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Saturday, December 6, 2008
חג הגאולה
Almost robotic we danced in circles. Outside the winter chill was on its course, but inside the warmth took presence as the singing and dancing became livelier.
To my right a teen with side curls gripped my shoulder as we jumped up and down. To my left an older gentleman without a beard used one hand to hold his cup of vodka and his other hand waved wildly in the air. Surrounding us, men with pained faces and worried eyes sat heavily and watched. Starving for information they quietly waited.
Finally, news. Men ran in with cell phones in their hands. Pointing to their phones, shouting in jubilation “They are alive…. Both of them alive!”
Instantly the dancing grew increasingly more intense. The news circled. Announcements were made. My side curl friend was now on the floor somersaulting. My other friend was getting a refill. I closed my eyes as sweat and tears irritatingly mixed. Until our lungs became sore over and over we repeated in song “For your miracles, for your wonders and for your salvations.”
The horrific news that engulfed us all day, now escaped from every pore of our bodies.
We were threatened but we withstood. We were attacked but we survived. G-d and good prevailed.
That night I slept. I dreamt of how the rejoicing had only begun.
The next morning I woke. My throat was dry and my legs ached.
All turned black and the world stopped. “They are dead…. Both of them dead!”
I tried to ignore reality, but it was too true. The previous night’s elation was now a rumor of the past.
The world began to move again, but ever so painfully slow.
What else is there to say?
To my right a teen with side curls gripped my shoulder as we jumped up and down. To my left an older gentleman without a beard used one hand to hold his cup of vodka and his other hand waved wildly in the air. Surrounding us, men with pained faces and worried eyes sat heavily and watched. Starving for information they quietly waited.
Finally, news. Men ran in with cell phones in their hands. Pointing to their phones, shouting in jubilation “They are alive…. Both of them alive!”
Instantly the dancing grew increasingly more intense. The news circled. Announcements were made. My side curl friend was now on the floor somersaulting. My other friend was getting a refill. I closed my eyes as sweat and tears irritatingly mixed. Until our lungs became sore over and over we repeated in song “For your miracles, for your wonders and for your salvations.”
The horrific news that engulfed us all day, now escaped from every pore of our bodies.
We were threatened but we withstood. We were attacked but we survived. G-d and good prevailed.
That night I slept. I dreamt of how the rejoicing had only begun.
The next morning I woke. My throat was dry and my legs ached.
All turned black and the world stopped. “They are dead…. Both of them dead!”
I tried to ignore reality, but it was too true. The previous night’s elation was now a rumor of the past.
The world began to move again, but ever so painfully slow.
What else is there to say?
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
Saturday, November 1, 2008
ושבו בנים
His face flashes on the screen and I wonder –
When he leys on the cold nameless floor, does he remember the feeling of his own bed?
When faceless captors beat and threaten him, can he picture his mothers smile?
When cold winds pierce through is tattered clothing, does the thought of home comfort him?
When all air has left his lungs and his body becomes numb to all pain, can memories of Mediterranean beaches and vibrant cafes still exist?
When his stomach squeals from hunger and his throat dries from thirst, does he think of the waterfalls in the north and the falafel stands in the center?
When he no longer remembers where and who he is, would he still recognize his brothers in arms?
When time moves so slow and the thought of never coming home begins to settle, does he know thousands who never met him now miss and love him?
His face reappears on the screen and I wonder –
Does he still look the same?
Is he even still alive?
When he leys on the cold nameless floor, does he remember the feeling of his own bed?
When faceless captors beat and threaten him, can he picture his mothers smile?
When cold winds pierce through is tattered clothing, does the thought of home comfort him?
When all air has left his lungs and his body becomes numb to all pain, can memories of Mediterranean beaches and vibrant cafes still exist?
When his stomach squeals from hunger and his throat dries from thirst, does he think of the waterfalls in the north and the falafel stands in the center?
When he no longer remembers where and who he is, would he still recognize his brothers in arms?
When time moves so slow and the thought of never coming home begins to settle, does he know thousands who never met him now miss and love him?
His face reappears on the screen and I wonder –
Does he still look the same?
Is he even still alive?
Friday, October 31, 2008
Ani Li
If you are you because he is he,
and he is he because you are you.
Then, you are not you and he is not he.
BUT, If you are you because you are you,
and he is he because he is he.
Then, you are you and he is he.
-The Kotzker Rebbe.
and he is he because you are you.
Then, you are not you and he is not he.
BUT, If you are you because you are you,
and he is he because he is he.
Then, you are you and he is he.
-The Kotzker Rebbe.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Little Jerusalem
A half-hour from the Hungary - Slovakia border lives a small Slovakian city called “Dunaszerdahely.” Before the war this city inhabited six thousand people, three thousand five hundred of them being Jewish; more Jews than non-Jews. It also had two large synagogues, a cemetery with over two thousand Jewish graves and seven Baatei Medroshim where Bochurim from all over Europe came to study. This is how a small check Slovakian city acquired the nickname “little Jerusalem.”
Today only fifty Jews live there. Both synagogues have been destroyed and only one of the seven Baatei Medroshim still stands, and serves as the Shull today.
I traveled from Budapest to Dunaszerdahely with another student from the Budapest Yeshiva. We came to lead the Yom Kippur services. To help a community who has not had such services in more then ten years.
Standing in the area where the Orthodox synagogue once stood, I stand numb as the Rosh Hakahal tolls us “on this exact plot of land, more than three thousand Jews were sent off to their deaths, in one day, in one transport.” He shows us the memorial, which can be looked at in two ways. From one angle it is the Luchos with a hole burnt through it. From the other angle it is a gate to a concentration camp. “Look on the ground, there are many foot prints entering, but only one exiting.”
Kol Nidrei.
There are twenty men in Shull, all ready to pray. The Rosh Hakahal introduces us, and the congregant’s bursts into applause. My friend says a few words about Yom Kipur in Hungarian. They can’t believe he learnt such a difficult language in only one year.
Maariv.
“Slach Na” to the tune of Hava Nagila. “Yaleh” to the tune of Dovid Melech. The men are all humming along. I can here a few reading slowly in Hebrew.
Maarive is coming to an end and for the final part “Avinu Malkeinu,” I see an elderly man is being helped with putting on his Tallis, and then being helped to the Aron Kodesh. The Rosh Hakahal tells me “This man is ninety years old. He lived here before the war, and was deported with the rest of the Jews. All of his family was killed in Dachau, but he survived and returned. Tonight is very important to him.”
After hearing this, I ask myself. Who am I to be the one to announce “Do it for the sake of those who were slaughtered in your name”? What have I seen to proclaim “Do it for the sake of those who went through fire and water for the sanctification of your name”? What do I know to ask, “Avenge the spilled blood of your servants”? In this old mans presence the meaning of the words became too real. In this survivors presence I forgot how to read. The rest of avinu malkeinu was just an embarrassing mumble.
After services the few who are still in Shull sit around a table to talk. One man informs us “As a child I learnt here in cheder, but it’s the Teachers slaps I remember more then anything else.” There is another older man sitting amongst us. He to is a survivor and he wants to know if we speak Yiddish. His face lights up as we answer “zicher ken men yiddish ”. In Yiddish he tells us “I was in the ghetto, but my mother and I escaped. We went to Budapest where for a large amount of money, a non Jewish family hid us through the war.” I wonder when the last time he spoke Yiddish was.
Shachris.
We arrive to Shull and there are six women here today. The only problem is they are all sitting in the men’s section. So we ask in a respectful manner for them to please sit in the women’s section.
Before kriah I bring the Sefer Torah to the women for them to kiss. One lady walks up to me, mumbles a few words in Hungarian, then pinch’s my cheek. “What did she say”? I ask my friend. He laughs and translates her remark. “You may tell me to sit in the women’s section, but you can’t stop me from pinching your cheek.”
Neilah.
The fast has been over for more then twenty minutes now, and we are still praying. Nobody is complaining, no nervous glances at the clock. The next time these people will have a chance to pray as a community will only be next year, so what’s the rush? But all good things must come to an end. It is now time for “Napoleons march.” As we all hold hands and dance in a circle, the Rosh Hakohol whispers in my ear “today dunaszerdahely was once again little Jerusalem.
Today only fifty Jews live there. Both synagogues have been destroyed and only one of the seven Baatei Medroshim still stands, and serves as the Shull today.
I traveled from Budapest to Dunaszerdahely with another student from the Budapest Yeshiva. We came to lead the Yom Kippur services. To help a community who has not had such services in more then ten years.
Standing in the area where the Orthodox synagogue once stood, I stand numb as the Rosh Hakahal tolls us “on this exact plot of land, more than three thousand Jews were sent off to their deaths, in one day, in one transport.” He shows us the memorial, which can be looked at in two ways. From one angle it is the Luchos with a hole burnt through it. From the other angle it is a gate to a concentration camp. “Look on the ground, there are many foot prints entering, but only one exiting.”
Kol Nidrei.
There are twenty men in Shull, all ready to pray. The Rosh Hakahal introduces us, and the congregant’s bursts into applause. My friend says a few words about Yom Kipur in Hungarian. They can’t believe he learnt such a difficult language in only one year.
Maariv.
“Slach Na” to the tune of Hava Nagila. “Yaleh” to the tune of Dovid Melech. The men are all humming along. I can here a few reading slowly in Hebrew.
Maarive is coming to an end and for the final part “Avinu Malkeinu,” I see an elderly man is being helped with putting on his Tallis, and then being helped to the Aron Kodesh. The Rosh Hakahal tells me “This man is ninety years old. He lived here before the war, and was deported with the rest of the Jews. All of his family was killed in Dachau, but he survived and returned. Tonight is very important to him.”
After hearing this, I ask myself. Who am I to be the one to announce “Do it for the sake of those who were slaughtered in your name”? What have I seen to proclaim “Do it for the sake of those who went through fire and water for the sanctification of your name”? What do I know to ask, “Avenge the spilled blood of your servants”? In this old mans presence the meaning of the words became too real. In this survivors presence I forgot how to read. The rest of avinu malkeinu was just an embarrassing mumble.
After services the few who are still in Shull sit around a table to talk. One man informs us “As a child I learnt here in cheder, but it’s the Teachers slaps I remember more then anything else.” There is another older man sitting amongst us. He to is a survivor and he wants to know if we speak Yiddish. His face lights up as we answer “zicher ken men yiddish ”. In Yiddish he tells us “I was in the ghetto, but my mother and I escaped. We went to Budapest where for a large amount of money, a non Jewish family hid us through the war.” I wonder when the last time he spoke Yiddish was.
Shachris.
We arrive to Shull and there are six women here today. The only problem is they are all sitting in the men’s section. So we ask in a respectful manner for them to please sit in the women’s section.
Before kriah I bring the Sefer Torah to the women for them to kiss. One lady walks up to me, mumbles a few words in Hungarian, then pinch’s my cheek. “What did she say”? I ask my friend. He laughs and translates her remark. “You may tell me to sit in the women’s section, but you can’t stop me from pinching your cheek.”
Neilah.
The fast has been over for more then twenty minutes now, and we are still praying. Nobody is complaining, no nervous glances at the clock. The next time these people will have a chance to pray as a community will only be next year, so what’s the rush? But all good things must come to an end. It is now time for “Napoleons march.” As we all hold hands and dance in a circle, the Rosh Hakohol whispers in my ear “today dunaszerdahely was once again little Jerusalem.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
My Golan.
Sun rise in the Golan and I am caught in the stillness. In this morning hush theYehudia and the jilabun threaten to not exist.
Slowly, the busses steam across, waking up the roads. The tractors begin their labor, waking the settlements.
To imagine;
In these very gorges and fields, where nature seekers take pictures and drink natural spring water, dying soldiers said their last prayers.
Amongst these ancient ruins, where a nation studies it very own heritage, war machines cried and went up in smoke.
From these look out points where crashing water falls sing beneath them, one commander called for retreat while another danced in victory.
I reluctantly enter the bus, but Jerusalem is my next stop and the sun fully shining makes it easier for me to say goodbye to my favorite place in the world. The place where I originally experienced ultimate freedom and creativity. A place where I learnt to rely absolutely on friends and like a circle make them absolutely trust me.
While praying, I proclaim many praises and I ask nothing for myself.
I only ask that the Golan is never again to be threatened.
She is sound and color, a home for many and a place to visit for many others.
Even in her modesty she is a symbol of strength and resilience.
The Golan is me and I am not a bargaining chip!
Slowly, the busses steam across, waking up the roads. The tractors begin their labor, waking the settlements.
To imagine;
In these very gorges and fields, where nature seekers take pictures and drink natural spring water, dying soldiers said their last prayers.
Amongst these ancient ruins, where a nation studies it very own heritage, war machines cried and went up in smoke.
From these look out points where crashing water falls sing beneath them, one commander called for retreat while another danced in victory.
I reluctantly enter the bus, but Jerusalem is my next stop and the sun fully shining makes it easier for me to say goodbye to my favorite place in the world. The place where I originally experienced ultimate freedom and creativity. A place where I learnt to rely absolutely on friends and like a circle make them absolutely trust me.
While praying, I proclaim many praises and I ask nothing for myself.
I only ask that the Golan is never again to be threatened.
She is sound and color, a home for many and a place to visit for many others.
Even in her modesty she is a symbol of strength and resilience.
The Golan is me and I am not a bargaining chip!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Fate.
Dedicated to Mishu,
in glory and disappearance. triumph and isolation.
The night was cold and unfriendly. My legs carried me, but the message I carried had long been forgotten. Every breath I took was an icicle piercing my lungs. Every thorn and stone seized the moment, grabbed all opportunities to cut at my flesh.
in glory and disappearance. triumph and isolation.
The night was cold and unfriendly. My legs carried me, but the message I carried had long been forgotten. Every breath I took was an icicle piercing my lungs. Every thorn and stone seized the moment, grabbed all opportunities to cut at my flesh.
I beseeched the sun to make an early appearance, if not for his warmth than for his guidance. My call went unanswered. It seemed the concession was not worth his while.
I then begged the owl to forget his comfort zone and part from his branch of superiority. Tonight, just this moment, he should guide me to the light; make the glimmer a reality.
His stare was as blank and emotionless as ever, thus distancing himself from any burden or unease. How foolish I was. The owl was merely a spectator. My rush, my search was his entertainment. My end result was his bet.
In spite of the owl I raced forward. His aloofness only brightened the spark. Up in the mountain, across the valley, way beyond darkness’s reach, the spark was now looking more like a flash.
In spite of the owl I raced forward. His aloofness only brightened the spark. Up in the mountain, across the valley, way beyond darkness’s reach, the spark was now looking more like a flash.
The moon expressed sympathy. But what good were his tears when they turn to rain and wrath? His sincere intentions only created mud, which sucked my energy from the core, which drained my strength till utter exhaustion. What was his compassion worth when is arm was out of reach?
My legs no longer carried my weight. Hope gave instructions while fatigue fought its battle. (What good is human attributes when one is out in the wild?) But beyond the disparity and within pain, my eyes once again encountered the inspiration; a flash that was now looking more like a glow.
It was at that moment that the mad man passed me by. Or was it I who passed him? Was he frozen in his tracks? Or was he speeding in frenzy?
Today, I only recollect his image and our words.Eyes Blood shot, bare foot, exposed scars, and drool running from his chin.
"Can we switch places? Can I hide in your infinite reality"?
I asked shouting, as if I wanted the entire universe to hear.
"Is it just me, or is the glow now looking more like a flame"?
The mad man simply closed his eyes, tightened his lips and shook his head as if to say: “tonight for once it is I who is sane. You my poor boy, you are the mad one.”
Had I not invaded his element, had I not exposed his domain, he would have been tearing at my pants begging for change. In a different life time, on a bright sunny day, I would have had the last laugh.
No time to waste, for the echo from the streams were bouncing off the treas. Her call only caused a maze of confusion. Blinded by misdirection, I still found the source; the rushing waters.
Water! Replenishes the soul, but on that night it froze every bone in my body. Waist deep, currents of shock running through my heart, I pushed forward breathing heavily while imagining the waves were clouds. Freedom depended on endurance. Endurance depended on the frame of mind.
Freed from the element of winter I reached the peak of the mountain. Waterlogged, I was carrying the weight of the past and the hunger for the future. I began my ascent. I used very rock as a step. I clawed my way upwards refusing to look down. I was victorious in my climb. Yet, I had no time or reason to celebrate. I was no longer breathing heavy. As a matter of fact I was no longer breathing at all.
Behold,
The spark of childhood laughed on by.
The flash of adolescence was short lived.
The glow of mid life was troublesome and uneventful.
The fire of ripe old age was tired and argumentative.
Regret had sunken my shoulders and moistened my eyes.
True, the fire was now looking more like flames. Indeed, the flames of hell.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Friday, August 8, 2008
Wine Life.
Dear Spencer Hill Estate staff,
Thank you very much for making my stay extremely fun, pleasant and educational.
Now when I get back to New York and buy your wine and I see family and Friends buying it too, I will be confident in saying: Kosher wise, you guys are as honest and sincere as possible.
But most importantly, the Spencer Hill Estate staff love life, love each other and love their wine!
All the best,
Rabbi StevO.
Thank you very much for making my stay extremely fun, pleasant and educational.
Now when I get back to New York and buy your wine and I see family and Friends buying it too, I will be confident in saying: Kosher wise, you guys are as honest and sincere as possible.
But most importantly, the Spencer Hill Estate staff love life, love each other and love their wine!
All the best,
Rabbi StevO.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Kaikora.
A million miles from home; an eternity away from anything I knew.
Unleashed –
Trekking from sun rise, hoping to kiss the sky, imagining night would never fall.
Rising –
On half the circle; wrapped in the clouds, and blinded by the mist.
On the other half; punished by the sun, yet grateful for his insurance.
The peak –
G-D’s emanating veins seemed to disappear from the mountain.
As we grew taller the ocean had threatened to vanish.
750 M. No traffic in the sky.
Unleashed –
Trekking from sun rise, hoping to kiss the sky, imagining night would never fall.
Rising –
On half the circle; wrapped in the clouds, and blinded by the mist.
On the other half; punished by the sun, yet grateful for his insurance.
The peak –
G-D’s emanating veins seemed to disappear from the mountain.
As we grew taller the ocean had threatened to vanish.
750 M. No traffic in the sky.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Forseight
It is now Shlomo’s turn to speak: “May I tell you about my meeting with Yeoshua? Do you remember him? The innocent preacher who had only one word on his lips: Love.
Poor man. I saw him the day he was crucified. Not far from here.
“I remember it clearly. I went over to him and said: ‘it is not you I shall be waiting for.’ He seemed serene, at peace with himself and the whole creation. I tried to make him understand that this was not the first time a Jew was dying for his faith. There were other martyrs before him. But they had gone to their death crying, screaming with pain. For them, for us, no death is worthy of being invoked or sanctified. All life is sacred, irreplaceable; it is inhuman for any person to renounce it joyfully, it is blasphemous to abandon it without remorse.
“’Are you angry with me?’ He asked.
“’No’ I answered. ‘Not angry. Just sad.’
“’Because of me?’
“’Yes, because of you. You think you are suffering for my sake and for my brothers’, yet we are the ones who will be made to suffer for you, because of you.
Since he refused to believe this, I began to describe what actions his followers would undertake in his name to spread his word. I painted a picture of the future which made him see the innumerable victims persecuted and crushed under the sign of his law. Thereupon he burst into tears of despair: ‘No, no! This is not how it will be! You are wrong, you must be! This is not how I see the reign of my spirit! I want my heritage to be a gift of compassion and hope, not a punishment in blood!’
His sobs broke my heart and I sought to comfort him. I begged him to retrace his steps, to return to his people. ‘Too late’, he answered. ‘Once the stone is thrown, it can no longer be stopped. Once the spark is lit, it must burn itself out.’ I was overcome by pity and ended up weeping not only for us but for him as well.”
-A beggar in Jerusalem.
Poor man. I saw him the day he was crucified. Not far from here.
“I remember it clearly. I went over to him and said: ‘it is not you I shall be waiting for.’ He seemed serene, at peace with himself and the whole creation. I tried to make him understand that this was not the first time a Jew was dying for his faith. There were other martyrs before him. But they had gone to their death crying, screaming with pain. For them, for us, no death is worthy of being invoked or sanctified. All life is sacred, irreplaceable; it is inhuman for any person to renounce it joyfully, it is blasphemous to abandon it without remorse.
“’Are you angry with me?’ He asked.
“’No’ I answered. ‘Not angry. Just sad.’
“’Because of me?’
“’Yes, because of you. You think you are suffering for my sake and for my brothers’, yet we are the ones who will be made to suffer for you, because of you.
Since he refused to believe this, I began to describe what actions his followers would undertake in his name to spread his word. I painted a picture of the future which made him see the innumerable victims persecuted and crushed under the sign of his law. Thereupon he burst into tears of despair: ‘No, no! This is not how it will be! You are wrong, you must be! This is not how I see the reign of my spirit! I want my heritage to be a gift of compassion and hope, not a punishment in blood!’
His sobs broke my heart and I sought to comfort him. I begged him to retrace his steps, to return to his people. ‘Too late’, he answered. ‘Once the stone is thrown, it can no longer be stopped. Once the spark is lit, it must burn itself out.’ I was overcome by pity and ended up weeping not only for us but for him as well.”
-A beggar in Jerusalem.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Thursday, July 31, 2008
B49
With self proclaimed elegance, the doors to Russia opened before me. I declined. My visit would have but only one purpose, and there are so many who can fulfill the task better then me.
With whispers, a path to Mexico rubbed shoulders with me. I was not enticed. I have insecurities of my own.
Music escaping from headphones invited me to the islands. I passed up. One day a year is enough for me.
Head coverings and dark skin offered the Middle East. I remained indifferent. There is no love lost and we know it.
Dizzied, I embraced the numbers. I preferred future over present
With whispers, a path to Mexico rubbed shoulders with me. I was not enticed. I have insecurities of my own.
Music escaping from headphones invited me to the islands. I passed up. One day a year is enough for me.
Head coverings and dark skin offered the Middle East. I remained indifferent. There is no love lost and we know it.
Dizzied, I embraced the numbers. I preferred future over present
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Brooklyn summer.
The sun still had time before she would set, and then disappear behind the beach front mansions. The stranded crabs dreaded this notion, for the determined seagulls were crash landing for an early dinner.
Engulfed by the breeze, I sat and gazed at the sail boats as took they advantage of the winds. I watched the young rider soar and plummet within the choppy waters.
I have seen such moments before. After all, the coral reef in Eilat did not lie. The beaches of Sydney were tangible and the mountains of Cape Town were reached.
Yet today, I related with the moment. Today I experienced beauty, albeit simple beauty, with a Brooklyn accent.
Engulfed by the breeze, I sat and gazed at the sail boats as took they advantage of the winds. I watched the young rider soar and plummet within the choppy waters.
I have seen such moments before. After all, the coral reef in Eilat did not lie. The beaches of Sydney were tangible and the mountains of Cape Town were reached.
Yet today, I related with the moment. Today I experienced beauty, albeit simple beauty, with a Brooklyn accent.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Fractured.
Yesterday,
In the comfort of company and night;
Smack. Quick Bright Flash. Ringing. Shouts.
Confusion. Pause. Struggle. Release.
Shock. Adrenalin. Running. Calm. Safety. Anger.
Today,
Altered. Aware. Prepared.
In the comfort of company and night;
Smack. Quick Bright Flash. Ringing. Shouts.
Confusion. Pause. Struggle. Release.
Shock. Adrenalin. Running. Calm. Safety. Anger.
Today,
Altered. Aware. Prepared.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
1664
Summer Fact: There is nothing a cold imported beer cannot fix!
City buzz, human streaks, foreign language, good company and the bottle looks me dead square in the eyes.
The sight lifts me from sardine packed streets, to the spacious french alps.
From muffler fumes, to the brisk cool and fresh mountain air.
From fatigue to endless energy.
The memory:
Under my bed
the trinity did lay.
A gift for my old man
in the U.S.A.
The establishment
stole it.
consumed it.
denied it.
City buzz, human streaks, foreign language, good company and the bottle looks me dead square in the eyes.
The sight lifts me from sardine packed streets, to the spacious french alps.
From muffler fumes, to the brisk cool and fresh mountain air.
From fatigue to endless energy.
The memory:
Under my bed
the trinity did lay.
A gift for my old man
in the U.S.A.
The establishment
stole it.
consumed it.
denied it.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
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