(B)logarhythm

Anna

I just had a 15 minute conversation with a stranger in my lobby.

 

I was returning home after walking Zach and Judah to school.  As I walked up to the front door of my building, I saw a white-haired woman sitting (in a strangely contorted way) in a chair in the lobby.

 

I’ve seen her before. She usually just sits there, listening to a small transistor radio that sits beside her on the seat. She speaks very slowly and with a thick accent. She always smiles and says hello. If my kids are with me, she likes to comment on how handsome they are.

 

I walked inside. We exchanged hellos. I wasn’t in a rush, so I asked her how she was doing

 

Here is what I learned:

 

Her name is Anna.

 

That’s A-N-N-A.

 

It’s a Jewish name.

 

She is shrinking.

 

Her husband is buried in Greenwood Cemetery along with most of her relatives.

 

She is from the old country. Czechoslovakia. Which, she tells me, is not a country anymore. They did, however, have a Jewish president.

 

She has 2 sons. One lives in Dallas. One lives in the building. That son put himself through college.

 

Her husband died when the boys were in high school. He worked on Broadway as an electrician.

 

Then…

 

She stopped remembering. Just for a second.

 

It was like the wheels stopped turning. Like the power grid dimmed and the lights flickered. She put her hand to her temple and mumbled.

 

Suddenly, she came back. House lights on. She was fine.

 

And, out of nowhere, she said:

 

“You know… God bless the Jewish people… and, God bless all people.”

 

Her son came then to pick her up. I said goodbye, and told her that my name was Josh. “That’s a Polish name!” she exclaimed. She smiled. I smiled back.

 

I got into the elevator.

 

And went up.

RH13

5:42.

Tuesday.

Third of September,

Two thousand and thirteen.

The day before Rosh Hashana.

Window seat at Café Martin, Brooklyn, NY

 

Here, in the first quiet moment I’ve given to self-reflection in some time, I am moved to share thoughts on the year to come.

I’ve watched this year pass through the narrow view of a telescope, lens dirty from dust and smoke, emotionally detached but somehow present thanks to the distance such a device affords. I’ve seen quite a bit this year. Death, joy, fear, rapture, connection, disappointment, pride, love... it’s a long list.

Here are, as distilled from a recently retired Moleskine and in no particular order, this year’s life lessons:

  •  If you lose God, just find a kid.
  • Music is in the making.
  • We are all, in one way or another, praying to ourselves.
  • God is; God is: God is, God is.
  • There is always hope.
  • Any moment can be the moment when something momentous occurs.
  • If you swear that you will never love again…
  • Money kills. How ironic then that in the end, we could not (would not) (should not) care about it less.
  • It’s time to be an artist, which essentially means that it’s time to be.
  • Believe in the power of positive change.
  • It only takes one. Truth.
  • Family is kinetic, not genetic.
  • Bloodlines don’t necessarily lead to love lines. (Fortunately, love lines are not bloodline-dependent.)
  • There is no reason an omelet should contain only one kind of cheese.

Wishing all of us, each and every one, a beautiful and blessed year to come. 

Shana Tovah,

josh

to what is new


to what is new, and yet, has always been


i know not from where You have come

but I will not question


i am not sure how a lone soul can breathe this essence

but It is strong, and physical, and It passes through me with wild joy


i wish i could understand

but ultimately, the search for understanding may diminish the wonder

and so I simply receive, blissfully, without the clarity that tends to

shove me from the road of forward motion


doorsflyopenlightsflareandfiresmokerises


and suddenly, it is not about the door


nor, about the way it may be opened


for there is


bright


Light.


-jn

Counting to 10

 

My kids are learning to play hide and seek.

I loved this game as a kid. Our small suburban house had lots of little spots that could serve as viable hiding places. I remember my mom occasionally needing to coax me out after I’d found a particularly effective station and remained there long after the game had run its course.

These days, I live in a NYC apartment along with my two little men. Space is, to say the least, at a premium. Hence, appropriate hiding places can be in short supply.

Not that we don’t manage, however. My three-year-old son spends a good amount of time lying semi-motionless under a blanket in the middle of my bed, hoping time and time again that I will fail to notice the significant lump rising up from the mattress, let alone the steady stream of muffled giggles that it emits.

Consequently, it often takes me several minutes of intense “searching” to find him. I call his name as I look in the closet, in the bathtub, in my backpack…

Eventually, with great fanfare and astonishment, he is found. After a good laugh, the boys switch roles and his four-year-old brother goes off to “hide.” Eyes covered, I slowly and deliberately count to 10, and suddenly a slightly larger lump in the bed has appeared…

While our family gaming tradition continues to grow, I‘ve recently reached a tipping point in my personal journey. I’m experiencing change in fundamental ways. And, in an ironic sense, my search for growth is informed by this gameplay.

Truth: I’m tired of looking for God in the bathtub.

I’m often struck by how our larger community deals with the concept of a God that is. Some choose to not invoke God’s name at all; others need a euphemism or a piece of poignant imagery simply to be in relationship, relying on burning bushes and parting waters to bridge their intellectual and spiritual selves.

I believe in a God that is everything and everywhere, the One great unifying force that binds us together on every (un)imaginable level. I believe there is More, and I want to get closer to It.

Like many of us, I’ve spent much of my spiritual adult life discovering meaning and connection in a series of bursts.  Maybe it’s a natural product of personal maturation, but I’ve tired of doing an Israeli line dance around the edges of my spiritual life. Once in a while, I’ll hold onto friends and loved ones as we move toward the center of our circle, raising our joined hands in the air as we converge into a connected community. Then, just like that, we are back on the outskirts, circling the center where we will reconvene in sixteen or thirty-two bars.

I’ve often grappled with the question of why we don’t just stay in the center. Were we to remain there without end, would it lose its luster, no longer as special as it was when we reached there only occasionally? Or, would the intensity of the center become overwhelming, rapidly escalating into a new and tremendously powerful experience? I don’t know. And at various times, like many of us, I’ve been deeply afraid of finding out.

I’m not suggesting the viability of an existence that occurs solely in that center. I’m simply stating that we could stand to spend more time there, both individually and as a community.

If we believe in God’s oneness, if we are all made b’tzelem Elohim (in the image of God), and if we are all part of the One... then we hold an intrinsic responsibility to embrace the depth of that connection and to let go of the fear which inevitably surrounds it.

The words in the siddur are simply a door, the rituals of Jewish life simply a vehicle. They are not a destination, but a path. If we are content to let those tools be the extent of our spiritual connection, then we miss the point entirely, allowing ourselves to diminish the possibility of More in favor of what is known, safe, and secure.

Baruch Atah, Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha Olam, whom we seek in the quietest and most remote of places. May we be granted the courage to truly see… even if we don’t begin by counting to ten.

Passing Over...


It’s 4 AM. I haven’t sold my chametz.


This time of year is always really good for me. I like (read: crave) the arrival of the spring, and look forward to everything that comes along with it.


When I was a little kid, spring really meant March and the beginning of spring training. The arrival of pitchers and catchers meant April would come soon, and April was only a month away from May, which in turn was only a couple weeks away from June 15, which was generally the day school let out for summer vacation. I actually remember charging through the doors of my elementary school, bursting out onto the playground and shouting “I’m free! I’m free!”


It’s a funny memory to have every year, since I generally spend some time around this season thinking about the nature of freedom.


On a personal level, this past year hasn’t been so easy. I’m not quite sure how I arrived at this particular point in my life. I am sure, though, that walking through the proverbial desert has clearly brought me closer to the man I want to be… I just need to know how to find my way home. (I keep looking for Charlton Heston to guide me, but he never seems to show up...).


In some ways, we are all lost in the desert… we search and we seek, hoping for a sign of something more. I suppose this is simply the nature of being, of hoping. The desert itself may look different every time we encounter it, but it’s always there, regardless. The desert, to put it lightly, isn’t easy.


Recently, a friend suggested that I start keeping a journal in order to find some clarity. It was a really good call. Here’s a little Pesach Manifesto:


I’m free. I’m not going to be a slave to expectations.

I’m free. I’m not going to compromise my individuality.

I’m free. I’m not going to let society’s sense of aesthetic determine my own.

I’m free. I’m not going to be afraid to be vulnerable.

I’m free. I’m not going to be afraid of walking into the water.


On some level, life is simply about living this blessing we call self-determination.


Easy or not, we all have the chance to sow the seeds of inner-truth. We ultimately have the power of choice; Pesach is all about seizing that choice and living a life that’s reflective of the miracles we’ve each been blessed to encounter.  Redemption itself is not found at a seder table. Rather, the seder reflects on the miracle that is redemption… and on all the other miracles that have graced our personal journeys. Redemption is internal. It’s already inside you and me and each of us, waiting...


May we gain wisdom in our lives, and live lives that honor and respect the essence of the Shechinah that shines within us all.


Avadim hayinu, Atah b’nei chorin. 

Once we were slaves. Now we are free.

Chag sameach, and a zisn Pesach.


-jn