I.
Music is a way of life. With my focus centered on hearing, my mind jumps into the air and clings onto currents of sound. I have an atuned emotional sphere within me so my heart also never fails to catch the wave. The range of sounds and tones existent in the universe is comparable to the range of emotions we humans are able to bring forth. As much as it’s pained me at many points in my life, and as much as I’ve resisted its call, I am always seeking to capture this entire orchestra of feeling. Perhaps I could store it somewhere safe in my body. Yet, to ride these varying waves of song is neither an option that many are capable of, nor a choice everyone chooses to make. I cannot stand for music ambiance. Each song that begins to play grabs my complete attention and sends me deep into memory and dream. And rarely am I able to completely enjoy a song. Not without an incredible need to own it in some fashion or another; in a CD, video performance or stash it away on my computer. I’ve always felt this desire to be somewhat ironic in light of the purity of beautify music gives to me.
II.
Dance washes away the muck in my life. It’s not so much of an escape as it is a dismantling of the negative power that sometimes shadows over my spirit. When my arm reaches across my body and then slowly floats to my side as I begin to rise to the balls of my feet, I am breathing. I am feeling. Each muscle that twitches, each joint that extends become central in my consciousness and I am able to let go of the things that take me far away from here. Dance is the physical expression of my mind rolling along music waves. When I dance, I don’t deny my emotions. I don’t let them consume me. Instead, I let them guide me.
Watching dance has always given me a similar reaction to listening to music. In a small, experimental dance performance that I attended at Hampshire College, an epic duet took place. A youthful two, “him” and “her”, ran, leapt, fell, and floated in and out of eachother’s touch. Each limb of their body, out to the last joint of their pinky fingers, was moving in coordinated motions. The theatrical effect of their duet carried tears to my eyes when the lights dimmed. I was taken, and went home listing the areas where I needed to practice in order to dance as they did.
III.
Renaissance art is my favorite style and that always seems to surprise people. Somehow they expect me to like the “abstract”. They want me to be interested dark colors; in the beckoning and bold. They also expect me to have have something to say about it. Something profound (I’ve been told I’m a profound person). But all I can say is that I love renaissance art, and there is really nothing special, breathtaking, inspiring, moving or any other such adjective I have left to reflect on it. I just like looking at people’s faces. The setting and props of the painting are most often uninteresting to me. It is the emotions that are drawn, painted or sculpted on their faces. I just like looking at them.
And if there is a medium that I feel most inspired by it is photography. It is the only form of art in which I feel confident enough to have a go at myself. I also enjoy editing pictures, which now due to twenty-first century pizzaz, is all done on my computer. It is usually late at night when I sit with my Apple and review my pictures. The computer warms my lap and I sink into the glowing screen. Contrast, saturation, exposure, temperature, tint, sharpness, noise – this is how I make a memory mine.
IV.
We were truly walking in fields of gold that late afternoon. We kissed beneath the jealous sky and let the breeze blow us away. I asked you if you wanted to take a picture. ‘Look at the sky’, I said, ‘look at how the orange radiates off the sun and highlights the flamingo pink clouds.’ You didn’t know what the word “radiate” meant, but I stopped you before you could answer. ‘Why do I want to take a picture so badly? Why do we feel the need to capture beauty?’ I complained. You didn’t say much. I can’t remember if you contributed any thoughts. You just listened for a while. Then you said to me, ‘Why do you have to describe everything you see? Don’t you know that I can see it too?’
You stopped me there and put me in my place. I felt like a punished dog. Why is it, I thought, that when I am privileged to these special moments in life, I want to take a picture? I want to write a poem! I want to call the ones I love to tell them all about it. I returned to my original thought and then asked you one last time, ‘Art is an ownership, no?’
You thought for a moment perplexed, and nodded your head in unsure agreement. I want to own beauty.
“Fields of Gold” by Sting, from the album Fields of Gold.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Can't You See My Light?!
I may not give myself enough credit.
I spend too much time scolding myself on my
petty,
impractical,
pompously pious,
yet purely poetic
personal, insignificance.
Do you want to slap me on the hand
or maybe the face?
By whatever means, help me wake up!
Is it more polite to start with passivity and move to strength?
I feel like I was always taught that way.
Some say it may be better than thinking this glowing circle of lights around your head
is all the light that the world can see
I know that so many minds in this universe are illuminated.
It's the thought that my lights don't count.
My lights don't shine enough
My lights aren't pretty enough.
I want someone to swoop me up and say:
Any light is a blessing, especially yours.
Someone told me that's what Jesus is for.
Someone also told me what Jesus' eyes look like.
With a snap of the keyboard they shocked me mid-type!
"all the things in the world you love, not the tempting ones
just the ones of goodness
so I've heard."
So I've heard that you had a broken heart once
Please tell me how it healed.
Please don't tell me you fell in love again.
That you fell down that sometimes hole of out-of-love
and came back to the surface on your own.
Please don't tell me that.
That would mean I'd have to let go.
It's so much harder to light your light when you think you fight
without the might, below the height.
When you don't believe it's shiny enough for him in slight.
Shimmering enough to warm his heart all through the night
Vivid enough to inspire his soul... outright.
It's so much harder to work through the broken glass of
he-may-not-want-your-light-anymore.
Someone told me that's supposed to be just ok.
I spend too much time scolding myself on my
petty,
impractical,
pompously pious,
yet purely poetic
personal, insignificance.
Do you want to slap me on the hand
or maybe the face?
By whatever means, help me wake up!
Is it more polite to start with passivity and move to strength?
I feel like I was always taught that way.
Some say it may be better than thinking this glowing circle of lights around your head
is all the light that the world can see
I know that so many minds in this universe are illuminated.
It's the thought that my lights don't count.
My lights don't shine enough
My lights aren't pretty enough.
I want someone to swoop me up and say:
Any light is a blessing, especially yours.
Someone told me that's what Jesus is for.
Someone also told me what Jesus' eyes look like.
With a snap of the keyboard they shocked me mid-type!
"all the things in the world you love, not the tempting ones
just the ones of goodness
so I've heard."
So I've heard that you had a broken heart once
Please tell me how it healed.
Please don't tell me you fell in love again.
That you fell down that sometimes hole of out-of-love
and came back to the surface on your own.
Please don't tell me that.
That would mean I'd have to let go.
It's so much harder to light your light when you think you fight
without the might, below the height.
When you don't believe it's shiny enough for him in slight.
Shimmering enough to warm his heart all through the night
Vivid enough to inspire his soul... outright.
It's so much harder to work through the broken glass of
he-may-not-want-your-light-anymore.
Someone told me that's supposed to be just ok.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Israel
When I was young my mother dragged me three times a week to the synagogue. Each Hebrew class would begin the same; we’d stand at our desks and with our hands on our hearts and sing the Sh’ma and the HaTikva. The first, a prayer to God, and the second a devotion to the State of Israel, neither of which I had any relationship with until I was much older. I went through a phase before my Bat Mitzvah where I would talk to God during the silent prayer of the service. I’d gaze at the buzzing, electrical orange light that hung above the Torah ark as the eternal flame and I would sing my heart out to God’s ears. This phase was short and particular to only my pre-teens. After just a few years of maturity, I realized I was simply talking to myself in those silent moments. I discovered that there were no resolutions. I could find nothing to convince me that God, as I was taught to think of “him”, existed.
When I was sixteen, my father took me to Seattle to see the hugging Hindu saint, Amma. We sat on our knees for over an hour beside thousands of others with our offerings of marigolds in our hands. When we finally reached the front of the line, Amma hugged us each separately, transferring the power of her infinite source of love into our hearts. We drove home late that night in silence, smiles on our faces. It was on car rides like these that my father would teach me about Buddhist philosophy. On one of these drives, he gave me my first analogy of enlightenment.
“You know how when you’re on a large water slide, and all that exists is the thrill of the slide?”
I definitely knew that feeling.
“That’s what enlightenment is.” I decided then that God must be the feeling you have when nothing else exists but the present.
Throughout this time, I continued singing the HaTikva once a week beneath the Israeli flag. I don’t remember being given a translation, or told what we were supporting politically. We were just trained to love Israel. Sabbath after Sabbath we sang Hebrew prayers that blessed our homeland in Israel, the land of milk and honey, the land of Abraham, Isaac and Jakob. In my last years of high school, when I no longer attended Sunday School, I began to learn about a side of Israel that I had never heard of in Synagogue before; a side of Israel that dealt with Palestinians. I remember my Hebrew School teachers telling us about the intifadas only vaguely; I had conjured images in my head of buses exploding. I was taught that Israel was under attack and that it was not a safe place to go. In secular school, there was a different story to be told; a story where the attacked was portrayed instead, as the attacker. There was a Gazan boy that I tutored for two years. He was kind and goofy and spoke with a smooth, young voice. I watched his Arabic words quickly turn into English, and I listened to his laments of his Muslim brothers being pinned behind the M15’s of Israeli soldiers. The more I learned and investigated, the more disgust and shame I had towards Israel.
A few years later, I entered college. My relationship with Israel and God (or now, spirituality) became more complicated. The further into Buddhist practice I ventured, the more committed to Judaism I became. This growing sense of spirituality illuminated my sense of tradition and culture. It was also, of course, aided by the fact that for the first time in my life, a strong and supportive Jewish community surrounded me.
Before the end of my first semester I registered for the Taglit Birthright program. My views towards Israeli policy had not changed, and I knew the program to be a full-fledged brainwashing/dating-service system, meant to turn neutral American Jews like myself into Israel loving, tradition redeemers. At least… I presumed this to be so, and thus got on the plane with my analytical ear intact. However, as soon as land came into view from above the Mediterranean, and Tel Aviv glimmered below us, my heart pushed to my lips and I began to sing HaTikva. I couldn’t help it, maybe it was my nefesh yehudi overcoming my doubts, but I sang the HaTikva as the plane roared across the runway. As soon as I walked into the Ben Gurion Airport with my Birthright Group, a large man shook my hand with an explosive smile and said, “Shalom Emily, welcome home!”
During my first few days on Israeli soil, I tried as hard as I could to maintain my intellectual barrier of reason, but no matter what resistance I put up, “welcome home” hummed in the back of my mind. The food was fresh and tasted healthy and wholesome. Fresh grape tomatoes, cucumbers and milk coming straight from the kibbutzim was on every breakfast table and the blend of Mediterranean and Middle Eastern cooking styles made every meal savory. I found Israeli people to embody the definition of community and we were all welcomed enthusiastically as brothers and sisters. I loved the earthiness of the white stone architecture that faintly resembled biblical times. Ancient olive orchards scattered the landscape accompanied by wheat and corn fields. I loved the fusion of ancient and modern and the cultural richness it fostered. After five days of traveling throughout the country with my group, I found myself watching the sun rise from the top of the last Jewish stronghold, Massada. In the morning glory, the desert and Dead Sea slowly illuminated around me. I had forgotten about the Gazan War that repulsed the world, raging just a few miles west, and by the end of that morning I had fallen in love. He was tall, dark, and handsome and mesmerized me with an air of complexity and an aura of familiarity. The land of Israel now had a shining face with large brown eyes that reciprocated my love.
I mulled over a lot of thoughts and feelings at that time and one of them was distinguishing between the man I loved and the country I had discovered. To this day the lines are still not clearly defined. When I returned several months later to live with him, many of my experiences of exploring love were entwined with my blossoming intimacy with Israel. I was sleeping with both. The hours spent tracing the architecture of his face were matched by the hours I spent staring at the foreign block-like letters written across road signs and billboards and the afternoons I spent dragging my feet along the parched summer dirt. For all of the times we laughed and danced in each other’s arms, I also made close friends and observed how Israelis lived their lives. Alone on sweltering July afternoons, I’d walk alone through the fields with the sun beating heavy on my shoulders. I’d scan across the farmlands towards the slopes of Mount Carmel and feel a deep-seated excitement within me. This beautiful view was the home of my people, and the prospects of a future life in this land gave me a sense of happiness and belonging.
However, the sense of belonging was superficial. On the night his mother discovered my mother’s gentile identity, I was instantly branded as no longer one of the tribe. Simply put, I was the American visiting her Israeli boyfriend. Despite the whole of my cultural upbringing I could not seem to find an Israeli who could see me fully as a Jew. The columns supporting my entire identity cracked and I was hurt immensely. There was a brief period where I considered abandoning my image as a Jew. I had my guidance in the Dharma, and I never truly related to the spiritual practice of Judaism. But my roots were deep and being Jewish was all I knew how to be. However, my relationship with both Israel and the man I love, had taken on a new personality. One of struggle in definition and clarity. The sparkling welcome of the Israeli flag fell under the shadow of perspective and I was left to figure out if I had been dreaming all along. I know now that I was never asleep. I realized instead that I had been seeing my Israeli world through the narrow lens of new love. With my eyes wide open I was able to see that the things we love also carry dark shadows. My heart is still trying to understand this.
When I was sixteen, my father took me to Seattle to see the hugging Hindu saint, Amma. We sat on our knees for over an hour beside thousands of others with our offerings of marigolds in our hands. When we finally reached the front of the line, Amma hugged us each separately, transferring the power of her infinite source of love into our hearts. We drove home late that night in silence, smiles on our faces. It was on car rides like these that my father would teach me about Buddhist philosophy. On one of these drives, he gave me my first analogy of enlightenment.
“You know how when you’re on a large water slide, and all that exists is the thrill of the slide?”
I definitely knew that feeling.
“That’s what enlightenment is.” I decided then that God must be the feeling you have when nothing else exists but the present.
Throughout this time, I continued singing the HaTikva once a week beneath the Israeli flag. I don’t remember being given a translation, or told what we were supporting politically. We were just trained to love Israel. Sabbath after Sabbath we sang Hebrew prayers that blessed our homeland in Israel, the land of milk and honey, the land of Abraham, Isaac and Jakob. In my last years of high school, when I no longer attended Sunday School, I began to learn about a side of Israel that I had never heard of in Synagogue before; a side of Israel that dealt with Palestinians. I remember my Hebrew School teachers telling us about the intifadas only vaguely; I had conjured images in my head of buses exploding. I was taught that Israel was under attack and that it was not a safe place to go. In secular school, there was a different story to be told; a story where the attacked was portrayed instead, as the attacker. There was a Gazan boy that I tutored for two years. He was kind and goofy and spoke with a smooth, young voice. I watched his Arabic words quickly turn into English, and I listened to his laments of his Muslim brothers being pinned behind the M15’s of Israeli soldiers. The more I learned and investigated, the more disgust and shame I had towards Israel.
A few years later, I entered college. My relationship with Israel and God (or now, spirituality) became more complicated. The further into Buddhist practice I ventured, the more committed to Judaism I became. This growing sense of spirituality illuminated my sense of tradition and culture. It was also, of course, aided by the fact that for the first time in my life, a strong and supportive Jewish community surrounded me.
Before the end of my first semester I registered for the Taglit Birthright program. My views towards Israeli policy had not changed, and I knew the program to be a full-fledged brainwashing/dating-service system, meant to turn neutral American Jews like myself into Israel loving, tradition redeemers. At least… I presumed this to be so, and thus got on the plane with my analytical ear intact. However, as soon as land came into view from above the Mediterranean, and Tel Aviv glimmered below us, my heart pushed to my lips and I began to sing HaTikva. I couldn’t help it, maybe it was my nefesh yehudi overcoming my doubts, but I sang the HaTikva as the plane roared across the runway. As soon as I walked into the Ben Gurion Airport with my Birthright Group, a large man shook my hand with an explosive smile and said, “Shalom Emily, welcome home!”
During my first few days on Israeli soil, I tried as hard as I could to maintain my intellectual barrier of reason, but no matter what resistance I put up, “welcome home” hummed in the back of my mind. The food was fresh and tasted healthy and wholesome. Fresh grape tomatoes, cucumbers and milk coming straight from the kibbutzim was on every breakfast table and the blend of Mediterranean and Middle Eastern cooking styles made every meal savory. I found Israeli people to embody the definition of community and we were all welcomed enthusiastically as brothers and sisters. I loved the earthiness of the white stone architecture that faintly resembled biblical times. Ancient olive orchards scattered the landscape accompanied by wheat and corn fields. I loved the fusion of ancient and modern and the cultural richness it fostered. After five days of traveling throughout the country with my group, I found myself watching the sun rise from the top of the last Jewish stronghold, Massada. In the morning glory, the desert and Dead Sea slowly illuminated around me. I had forgotten about the Gazan War that repulsed the world, raging just a few miles west, and by the end of that morning I had fallen in love. He was tall, dark, and handsome and mesmerized me with an air of complexity and an aura of familiarity. The land of Israel now had a shining face with large brown eyes that reciprocated my love.
I mulled over a lot of thoughts and feelings at that time and one of them was distinguishing between the man I loved and the country I had discovered. To this day the lines are still not clearly defined. When I returned several months later to live with him, many of my experiences of exploring love were entwined with my blossoming intimacy with Israel. I was sleeping with both. The hours spent tracing the architecture of his face were matched by the hours I spent staring at the foreign block-like letters written across road signs and billboards and the afternoons I spent dragging my feet along the parched summer dirt. For all of the times we laughed and danced in each other’s arms, I also made close friends and observed how Israelis lived their lives. Alone on sweltering July afternoons, I’d walk alone through the fields with the sun beating heavy on my shoulders. I’d scan across the farmlands towards the slopes of Mount Carmel and feel a deep-seated excitement within me. This beautiful view was the home of my people, and the prospects of a future life in this land gave me a sense of happiness and belonging.
However, the sense of belonging was superficial. On the night his mother discovered my mother’s gentile identity, I was instantly branded as no longer one of the tribe. Simply put, I was the American visiting her Israeli boyfriend. Despite the whole of my cultural upbringing I could not seem to find an Israeli who could see me fully as a Jew. The columns supporting my entire identity cracked and I was hurt immensely. There was a brief period where I considered abandoning my image as a Jew. I had my guidance in the Dharma, and I never truly related to the spiritual practice of Judaism. But my roots were deep and being Jewish was all I knew how to be. However, my relationship with both Israel and the man I love, had taken on a new personality. One of struggle in definition and clarity. The sparkling welcome of the Israeli flag fell under the shadow of perspective and I was left to figure out if I had been dreaming all along. I know now that I was never asleep. I realized instead that I had been seeing my Israeli world through the narrow lens of new love. With my eyes wide open I was able to see that the things we love also carry dark shadows. My heart is still trying to understand this.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Night Drive
Often when I drive,
I wear a blindfold.
I can never remember when I put it on
and there is certainly no intentional reason why.
It's just a habit I have
flying high
and full of charge
my hands on the wheel
the responsibility is all mine
Blind.
Blind
as a bat to the scenic mountains
or the open ocean,
or to the many stations I should have stopped for.
I don't even enjoy my dreams
in the dark
in the quiet
beneath the blindfold.
I wear a blindfold.
I can never remember when I put it on
and there is certainly no intentional reason why.
It's just a habit I have
flying high
and full of charge
my hands on the wheel
the responsibility is all mine
Blind.
Blind
as a bat to the scenic mountains
or the open ocean,
or to the many stations I should have stopped for.
I don't even enjoy my dreams
in the dark
in the quiet
beneath the blindfold.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
13I Ways to Stop Time
I.
I was smiling at a photograph
accessing the past
when I noticed the ladybugs
that were crawling all over
the corners of my consciousness.
II.
On the wings of an eagle we soared
drifting around the sleeping world below.
We sailed past ocean beasts
and escaped the cannibals
and then, in the still of the night,
III.
I was rehearsing the character I wished to be
practicing tones and eyebrow movements
when I looked at the stairs in front of me
and realized I had just come from this place.
IV.
I did not let go of your hand.
V.
Sucked out, cold as ice, my blood stopped it's flow.
Some spirits ignore life's limits.
VI.
The stories are true, I tell you!
Scientists can create anything these days.
VII.
I waited and watched the late afternoon sun out my window.
VIII.
I have a personal relationship with God
He answers my prayers
when I need a redo.
IX.
I buried the kookoo-clock six feet under the earth.
X.
Someone once told me of a circle,
where all things
come back to point A.
So there is no reason to look back,
it will come just beyond the midnight moon.
XI.
I was dreaming.
XII.
The world washed away when I saw you, Maria.
You, in your white dress,
underneath the thousand disco sparkles.
I couldn't breathe
from that moment forward.
XIII.
Within the confines of my mind, counting
is for recording my gains and losses.
I was smiling at a photograph
accessing the past
when I noticed the ladybugs
that were crawling all over
the corners of my consciousness.
II.
On the wings of an eagle we soared
drifting around the sleeping world below.
We sailed past ocean beasts
and escaped the cannibals
and then, in the still of the night,
III.
I was rehearsing the character I wished to be
practicing tones and eyebrow movements
when I looked at the stairs in front of me
and realized I had just come from this place.
IV.
I did not let go of your hand.
V.
Sucked out, cold as ice, my blood stopped it's flow.
Some spirits ignore life's limits.
VI.
The stories are true, I tell you!
Scientists can create anything these days.
VII.
I waited and watched the late afternoon sun out my window.
VIII.
I have a personal relationship with God
He answers my prayers
when I need a redo.
IX.
I buried the kookoo-clock six feet under the earth.
X.
Someone once told me of a circle,
where all things
come back to point A.
So there is no reason to look back,
it will come just beyond the midnight moon.
XI.
I was dreaming.
XII.
The world washed away when I saw you, Maria.
You, in your white dress,
underneath the thousand disco sparkles.
I couldn't breathe
from that moment forward.
XIII.
Within the confines of my mind, counting
is for recording my gains and losses.
May You Rest in Peace
I nearly fell asleep at the foot of a tomb stone.
The peace amongst the dead tempted my aching heart.
In the sun, with the company of singing autumn leaves,
I listened with a smile, to the lull of their stillest song.
What magic it is to feel time halt in the presence of the dead?
How peaceful it must be to let breath fly away and be free.
And yet, autumn leaves sing different songs in the company of the road.
Their colors flush with a warmth that shines on passersby.
The brushing lullaby persists through life’s traffic,
and calls often for some to rest under the shadow of the leaves.
The peace amongst the dead tempted my aching heart.
In the sun, with the company of singing autumn leaves,
I listened with a smile, to the lull of their stillest song.
What magic it is to feel time halt in the presence of the dead?
How peaceful it must be to let breath fly away and be free.
And yet, autumn leaves sing different songs in the company of the road.
Their colors flush with a warmth that shines on passersby.
The brushing lullaby persists through life’s traffic,
and calls often for some to rest under the shadow of the leaves.
I drown myself in clear water
I drown myself in clear water.
Warm, clear, water
with reflections of lights and colors past
Every beam of joy I've ever seen
sings like stars beneath the surface.
Every color ever soaked into my skin.
Every sparkling pattern to have made me glow,
once.
I'm drowning in these lights
and my body cramps violently for air.
I am immersed in water that boils fiercely with memory.
In the depths
I reach out with hesitant hands for a glowing pink light
she is the light of my first love.
through warmth and tenderness she set me free
and on the edge of her glimmer,
my fingers fall through the emptiness of her false existence
and bubbles escape from my screaming lungs
I am not sinking,
only floating just bellow the surface,
I can see sun of the outer world through this watery screen,
and I want to swim upwards.
Shimmering by,
more reflections of lights and colors past.
and so
I drown myself in this clear water.
Warm, clear, water
with reflections of lights and colors past
Every beam of joy I've ever seen
sings like stars beneath the surface.
Every color ever soaked into my skin.
Every sparkling pattern to have made me glow,
once.
I'm drowning in these lights
and my body cramps violently for air.
I am immersed in water that boils fiercely with memory.
In the depths
I reach out with hesitant hands for a glowing pink light
she is the light of my first love.
through warmth and tenderness she set me free
and on the edge of her glimmer,
my fingers fall through the emptiness of her false existence
and bubbles escape from my screaming lungs
I am not sinking,
only floating just bellow the surface,
I can see sun of the outer world through this watery screen,
and I want to swim upwards.
Shimmering by,
more reflections of lights and colors past.
and so
I drown myself in this clear water.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Tell Your Love
"It is the humble man who risks his dignity to speak up for what he loves. It is the courageous man who dares contradiction and acrimony of argument to defend his beliefs. If one loves anything, truth, beauty, woman, life, one will speak out. Genuine love cannot endure silence. Genuine love breaks out into speech. ANd when it is great love, it breaks out into song. Talk helps to relieve us of the tiresome burden of ourselves. It helps some of us to find out what we think. It is essential for the happiest companionship. One of the minor pleasures of affection is in the voicing of it. If you love your friend, says the song, tell him so. Talk helps one to get rid of the surplus of enthusiasm that often blurs our ideas. Talk, as the sage says, relieves the tension of grief by dividing it. Talk is one of man's great privileges, and witha little care it may be one of his blessings. The successful conversationalist is not the epigram-maker, for sustained brilliance is blinding. The successful conversationalist says unusual things in a usual way. The successful conversationalist is not ht e man who does not think stupid things, but the man who does not say the stupid things he thinks. Silence is essential to every happy conversation. But not too much silence. Too much silence may mean boredom, or bewilderment. And it may mean scorn. For silence is an able weapon of pride."
Mr. Blue by Myles Connelly (pg. 80-81)
Mr. Blue by Myles Connelly (pg. 80-81)
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Shards That Stay (a single syllable poem)
It just dawned on me just then;
the force and the charge
that surge our hearts
up
and down
and back and through and to
that place of seeds and fresh earth
Its' lost it breaks
it moves it shakes
but there are times
I can not stand with the pain.
So,
I fall I break
I move I shake
and peal this hurt right off me.
But some stays,
and de cays
and crusts,
in chips,
and digs deep in our skin
We are sharp shards
of love past
and to come.
The ones that do no shed with time.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Yom Hazikaron speech
I've never had to face the suffering of loss. I've never been to a funeral. I've never been in war, and until the beginning of this year have I ever known someone who has.
What I have seen... is suffering. I've held in my arms a grieving mother, I've listened to a man expelled from his country from war, and I've heard the shaking voice f a veteran who hurts from what he was made to do. I've seen enough to learn that the wars we make - inside and out - can destroy our lives. War takes away the very heart of what we live for: our loved ones and our homes. My visit to Mt. Herzel in Israel this past January added for me a vital understanding of the nature of suffering.
As my Birth Right group gathered at this
powerful unification of graves, I watched
my Israeli friend grieve. I watched
them cry with their heads in their hands
while I held in my pocket a desperate
message from my Gazan friend, whose
family braced through bombs each night.
And I realized... that it was all the same.
I hope that as we gather to commemorate these soldiers we can find the courage to reach out to all who have lost from war. Whether we agreed with their motivations of not, there are people in this world who every day, face the challenge of happiness because of the results of war. I ask that today we may reach out with compassion and lovingkindness, and not feelings of hurt, for the suffering of war.
What I have seen... is suffering. I've held in my arms a grieving mother, I've listened to a man expelled from his country from war, and I've heard the shaking voice f a veteran who hurts from what he was made to do. I've seen enough to learn that the wars we make - inside and out - can destroy our lives. War takes away the very heart of what we live for: our loved ones and our homes. My visit to Mt. Herzel in Israel this past January added for me a vital understanding of the nature of suffering.
As my Birth Right group gathered at this
powerful unification of graves, I watched
my Israeli friend grieve. I watched
them cry with their heads in their hands
while I held in my pocket a desperate
message from my Gazan friend, whose
family braced through bombs each night.
And I realized... that it was all the same.
I hope that as we gather to commemorate these soldiers we can find the courage to reach out to all who have lost from war. Whether we agreed with their motivations of not, there are people in this world who every day, face the challenge of happiness because of the results of war. I ask that today we may reach out with compassion and lovingkindness, and not feelings of hurt, for the suffering of war.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Zero
I never thought life could be so blissful in emptiness.
Freedom from thoughts
of fears, dreams and doubts.
zero
We take in breath,
and all the flavors of that
which surrounds us.
and then
we let that breath go
letting it all go,
only to take it in again and again.
And the cycle continues
round and round it goes.
We suffer - we move on,
we succeed - our success dissipates,
we love - we hate,
we're hungry - then we're full.
Our breath is our holy reminder
of life's impermanence.
Nothing can be frozen.
It is in the nature of the universe
to continue in motion.
Even the silent hum of zero
moves along
in it's transcendent neutrality.
With the ebb and flow of existence,
it permeates through all
of the negatives and positives of matter,
free from judgment and impact.
Free from our space,
free from ourselves.
Freedom from thoughts
of fears, dreams and doubts.
zero
We take in breath,
and all the flavors of that
which surrounds us.
and then
we let that breath go
letting it all go,
only to take it in again and again.
And the cycle continues
round and round it goes.
We suffer - we move on,
we succeed - our success dissipates,
we love - we hate,
we're hungry - then we're full.
Our breath is our holy reminder
of life's impermanence.
Nothing can be frozen.
It is in the nature of the universe
to continue in motion.
Even the silent hum of zero
moves along
in it's transcendent neutrality.
With the ebb and flow of existence,
it permeates through all
of the negatives and positives of matter,
free from judgment and impact.
Free from our space,
free from ourselves.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Equanimity.... say it again, equanimity.
" One approach to developing equanimity is to cultivate the qualities of mind that support it. Seven mental qualities support the development of equanimity.
The first is virtue or integrity. When we live and act with integrity, we feel confident about our actions and words, which results in the equanimity of blamelessness. The ancient Buddhist texts speak of being able to go into any assembly of people and feel blameless.
The second support for equanimity is the sense of assurance that comes from faith. While any kind of faith can provide equanimity, faith grounded in wisdom is especially powerful. The Pali word for faith, saddha, is also translated as conviction or confidence. If we have confidence, for example, in our ability to engage in a spiritual practice, then we are more likely to meet its challenges with equanimity.
The third support is a well-developed mind. Much as we might develop physical strength, balance, and stability of the body in a gym, so too can we develop strength, balance and stability of the mind. This is done through practices that cultivate calm, concentration and mindfulness. When the mind is calm, we are less likely to be blown about by the worldly winds.
The fourth support is a sense of well-being. We do not need to leave well-being to chance. In Buddhism, it is considered appropriate and helpful to cultivate and enhance our well-being. We often overlook the well-being that is easily available in daily life. Even taking time to enjoy one's tea or the sunset can be a training in well-being.
The fifth support for equanimity is understanding or wisdom. Wisdom is an important factor in learning to have an accepting awareness, to be present for whatever is happening without the mind or heart contracting or resisting. Wisdom can teach us to separate people's actions from who they are. We can agree or disagree with their actions, but remain balanced in our relationship with them. We can also understand that our own thoughts and impulses are the result of impersonal conditions. By not taking them so personally, we are more likely to stay at ease with their arising.
Another way wisdom supports equanimity is in understanding that people are responsible for their own decisions, which helps us to find equanimity in the face of other people's suffering. We can wish the best for them, but we avoid being buffeted by a false sense of responsibility for their well-being.
One of the most powerful ways to use wisdom to facilitate equanimity is to be mindful of when equanimity is absent. Honest awareness of what makes us imbalanced helps us to learn how to find balance.
The sixth support is insight, a deep seeing into the nature of things as they are. One of the primary insights is the nature of impermanence. In the deepest forms of this insight, we see that things change so quickly that we can't hold onto anything, and eventually the mind lets go of clinging. Letting go brings equanimity; the greater the letting go, the deeper the equanimity.
The final support is freedom, which comes as we begin to let go of our reactive tendencies. We can get a taste of what this means by noticing areas in which we were once reactive but are no longer. For example, some issues that upset us when we were teenagers prompt no reaction at all now that we are adults. In Buddhist practice, we work to expand the range of life experiences in which we are free.
These two forms of equanimity, the one that comes from the power of observation, and the one that comes from inner balance, come together in mindfulness practice. As mindfulness becomes stronger, so does our equanimity. We see with greater independence and freedom. And, at the same time, equanimity becomes an inner strength that keeps us balanced in middle of all that is."
adapted from a talk by Gil Fronsdale
“How many moments are our minds are tripped off on what other people are thinking, or what’s going to go wrong, or what has gone wrong? And those are moments that we’re not here, that we’re devided against ourselves and devided against others. Our beliefs that something is wrong or something is missing create our behaviors… and our behaviors then produce exactly the experience that reinforces our belief.”
The first is virtue or integrity. When we live and act with integrity, we feel confident about our actions and words, which results in the equanimity of blamelessness. The ancient Buddhist texts speak of being able to go into any assembly of people and feel blameless.
The second support for equanimity is the sense of assurance that comes from faith. While any kind of faith can provide equanimity, faith grounded in wisdom is especially powerful. The Pali word for faith, saddha, is also translated as conviction or confidence. If we have confidence, for example, in our ability to engage in a spiritual practice, then we are more likely to meet its challenges with equanimity.
The third support is a well-developed mind. Much as we might develop physical strength, balance, and stability of the body in a gym, so too can we develop strength, balance and stability of the mind. This is done through practices that cultivate calm, concentration and mindfulness. When the mind is calm, we are less likely to be blown about by the worldly winds.
The fourth support is a sense of well-being. We do not need to leave well-being to chance. In Buddhism, it is considered appropriate and helpful to cultivate and enhance our well-being. We often overlook the well-being that is easily available in daily life. Even taking time to enjoy one's tea or the sunset can be a training in well-being.
The fifth support for equanimity is understanding or wisdom. Wisdom is an important factor in learning to have an accepting awareness, to be present for whatever is happening without the mind or heart contracting or resisting. Wisdom can teach us to separate people's actions from who they are. We can agree or disagree with their actions, but remain balanced in our relationship with them. We can also understand that our own thoughts and impulses are the result of impersonal conditions. By not taking them so personally, we are more likely to stay at ease with their arising.
Another way wisdom supports equanimity is in understanding that people are responsible for their own decisions, which helps us to find equanimity in the face of other people's suffering. We can wish the best for them, but we avoid being buffeted by a false sense of responsibility for their well-being.
One of the most powerful ways to use wisdom to facilitate equanimity is to be mindful of when equanimity is absent. Honest awareness of what makes us imbalanced helps us to learn how to find balance.
The sixth support is insight, a deep seeing into the nature of things as they are. One of the primary insights is the nature of impermanence. In the deepest forms of this insight, we see that things change so quickly that we can't hold onto anything, and eventually the mind lets go of clinging. Letting go brings equanimity; the greater the letting go, the deeper the equanimity.
The final support is freedom, which comes as we begin to let go of our reactive tendencies. We can get a taste of what this means by noticing areas in which we were once reactive but are no longer. For example, some issues that upset us when we were teenagers prompt no reaction at all now that we are adults. In Buddhist practice, we work to expand the range of life experiences in which we are free.
These two forms of equanimity, the one that comes from the power of observation, and the one that comes from inner balance, come together in mindfulness practice. As mindfulness becomes stronger, so does our equanimity. We see with greater independence and freedom. And, at the same time, equanimity becomes an inner strength that keeps us balanced in middle of all that is."
adapted from a talk by Gil Fronsdale
“How many moments are our minds are tripped off on what other people are thinking, or what’s going to go wrong, or what has gone wrong? And those are moments that we’re not here, that we’re devided against ourselves and devided against others. Our beliefs that something is wrong or something is missing create our behaviors… and our behaviors then produce exactly the experience that reinforces our belief.”
Friday, March 6, 2009
What Being a "Buddhist" Means to Me.
I sit and breathe, and listen to my heartbeat. I sit and breathe, and collect the passion that oozes from my pores to generate love.
for myself
for the people in the room
for the floor beneath me
for my family so far away
and for you. I am using the gift of passion for you.
I sit and breath, and sooth myself when my mind wanders. It’s okay. You were thinking again, and now you’re awake.
…
It’s okay. You were thinking again, and now you’re awake.
…
You’re aware now, but you were just fine for thinking.
…
and I repeat this, over and over and over again. I practice, and practice, and find the will for patience in my devout faith. Faith that awareness, and compassion will save the world. I practice, and practice. I work on myself, so that I feel enough motivation to touch somebody else. Anybody. I believe – no, I know – with my entire mind and heart that I am saving the world. That I am healing suffering. I know that in caring and loving myself, I am reaching out to others. I know that in caring and loving others, I am reaching out to myself. The two come hand in hand, neither one more superior to the other.
But the patience, and the love are not always there.
And so I continue to practice - the passion of my will power comes out stronger in the end.
But this power does not win every battle…
And so sometimes, I am left absolutely terrified. I am left lonely. I am left to fester with my own anxieties. I am left to be critical of others and myself
And so I practice, and practice.
This is what being a Buddhist is.
for myself
for the people in the room
for the floor beneath me
for my family so far away
and for you. I am using the gift of passion for you.
I sit and breath, and sooth myself when my mind wanders. It’s okay. You were thinking again, and now you’re awake.
…
It’s okay. You were thinking again, and now you’re awake.
…
You’re aware now, but you were just fine for thinking.
…
and I repeat this, over and over and over again. I practice, and practice, and find the will for patience in my devout faith. Faith that awareness, and compassion will save the world. I practice, and practice. I work on myself, so that I feel enough motivation to touch somebody else. Anybody. I believe – no, I know – with my entire mind and heart that I am saving the world. That I am healing suffering. I know that in caring and loving myself, I am reaching out to others. I know that in caring and loving others, I am reaching out to myself. The two come hand in hand, neither one more superior to the other.
But the patience, and the love are not always there.
And so I continue to practice - the passion of my will power comes out stronger in the end.
But this power does not win every battle…
And so sometimes, I am left absolutely terrified. I am left lonely. I am left to fester with my own anxieties. I am left to be critical of others and myself
And so I practice, and practice.
This is what being a Buddhist is.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Virtue to you? Virtue to me? Virtue to both of us.
“virtue inevitably benefits both oneself and others" -Hallisey
It seems obvious the idea of virtue benefiting others. After all, “doing” is an outward act, inevitably felt by others. To be virtuous is to do virtuous things, which are, in essence, intended to benefit others. The more complex part of the statement comes when considering the self and virtue’s benefits upon it.
This truth is applied in the fact that Buddhist teachings do not prioritize the steps to virtue. There is no path or law that determines which to focus on first; compassion towards others or compassion towards the self. The two come hand in hand. Find one, and the other follows. Unconditional compassion is nothing more or less than unconditional compassion. If one virtuous direction is mastered, the other has already blossomed alongside. And better said, it is it's stem.
It seems obvious the idea of virtue benefiting others. After all, “doing” is an outward act, inevitably felt by others. To be virtuous is to do virtuous things, which are, in essence, intended to benefit others. The more complex part of the statement comes when considering the self and virtue’s benefits upon it.
It always seems that way doesn’t it? It is just so easy to observe the people around you, and interpret their existence in your mind.
The difficulty is found in interpreting what makes yourself happy. And what makes yourself act the way you do. What Hallisey presents in his statement is the Buddhist concept of having no difficulty in distinguishing the difference between “benefits” to others and “benefits” to the self.This truth is applied in the fact that Buddhist teachings do not prioritize the steps to virtue. There is no path or law that determines which to focus on first; compassion towards others or compassion towards the self. The two come hand in hand. Find one, and the other follows. Unconditional compassion is nothing more or less than unconditional compassion. If one virtuous direction is mastered, the other has already blossomed alongside. And better said, it is it's stem.
Theoretical classification of Buddhism (Keown)
"Is it egotistic or altruistic? Is it relativistic or absolutistic? is it objective or subjective? Is it deontological or teleological? is it naturalistic or non-naturalistic?" - Jayatilleke
Response by Damien Keown (from book Buddhist Ethics: A Very Short Introduction 2005) pg. 30-31
"Buddhism is both egoistic and altruistic in the sense that it sees moral conduct as leading simultaneously to the good of oneself and others. It is relativistic in the sense that it includes scope for flexibility where appropriate, but not in the sense of holding that moral norms (as distinct customs of etiquette) are merely a function of local cultural and historical circumstances. It is absolutistic in holding that certain things are always immoral (greed and hatred, for instance) and that certain things are always good (such as compassion, and non-violence). On the quetion of objectivity, we saw that in the previous chapter that as an aspect of Dharma, Buddhist ethical teachers are thought to be objectivily true and in accordance with the nature of things. If Dharma exists in this sense as an objective moral law it suggests that through the use of reason individuals can ensure that the choices they make are objectively valid - that is to say that they reach the same conclusions as would an enlightened reasoner. We can add that in maintaing that the truth about right and wrong is objective and can be known through the proper use of intellectual faculties such as insight (prajñá), Buddhist would appear to be a cognitive ethical philosphy. This means it hold taht moral truth can be discerned through reason, and that moral judgements are not merely subjective or a matter of personal taste, like a preference for red wine over white wine. Finally, we can conclude that Buddhist ethics is naturalistic (naturalist theories of ethics hold that an account can be given of moral conduct at the level of natural science). Buddhism holds there is a close connection between ethics and psychology, which is seen in the way moral conduct leads gradually to a transformation in the nature of the individual as little by little the virtuous person evolves into a Buddha."
Response by Damien Keown (from book Buddhist Ethics: A Very Short Introduction 2005) pg. 30-31
"Buddhism is both egoistic and altruistic in the sense that it sees moral conduct as leading simultaneously to the good of oneself and others. It is relativistic in the sense that it includes scope for flexibility where appropriate, but not in the sense of holding that moral norms (as distinct customs of etiquette) are merely a function of local cultural and historical circumstances. It is absolutistic in holding that certain things are always immoral (greed and hatred, for instance) and that certain things are always good (such as compassion, and non-violence). On the quetion of objectivity, we saw that in the previous chapter that as an aspect of Dharma, Buddhist ethical teachers are thought to be objectivily true and in accordance with the nature of things. If Dharma exists in this sense as an objective moral law it suggests that through the use of reason individuals can ensure that the choices they make are objectively valid - that is to say that they reach the same conclusions as would an enlightened reasoner. We can add that in maintaing that the truth about right and wrong is objective and can be known through the proper use of intellectual faculties such as insight (prajñá), Buddhist would appear to be a cognitive ethical philosphy. This means it hold taht moral truth can be discerned through reason, and that moral judgements are not merely subjective or a matter of personal taste, like a preference for red wine over white wine. Finally, we can conclude that Buddhist ethics is naturalistic (naturalist theories of ethics hold that an account can be given of moral conduct at the level of natural science). Buddhism holds there is a close connection between ethics and psychology, which is seen in the way moral conduct leads gradually to a transformation in the nature of the individual as little by little the virtuous person evolves into a Buddha."
Friday, February 6, 2009
He may be sexist, but he sure as hell was wise.
pg. 294 "Wind, Sand and Stars" by Antoine de Saint Exupery
"In a world become a desert we thirst for comradeship. It is the savor of bread broken with comrades that makes us accept the values of war. But there are other ways than war to bring us the warmth of race, shoulder to shoulder, towards an identical goal. War has tricked us. It is not true that hatred adds anything to the exaltation of the race.
Why should we hate one another? We all live in the same cause, are born through life on the same planet, form the crew of the same ship. Civilizations may, indeed, compete to bring forth new syntheses, but it is monstrous that they should devour one another.
To set man free it is enough that we help one another to realize that there does exist a goal towards which all mankind is striving. Why should we not strive towards that goal together, since it is what unites us all? The surgeon pays no heed to the moaning of his patient: beyond that pain it is man he is seeking to heal. That surgeon speaks a universal language. The physicist does the dame when he ponders those almost divine equations in which he seizes the whole physical universe from the atom to the nebula. Even the simple shepherd modestly watching his sheep under the stars would discover, once he understood the part he was playing, that he was something more than a servant, was a sentinel. And each sentinel among men is responsible for the whole of the empire."
"In a world become a desert we thirst for comradeship. It is the savor of bread broken with comrades that makes us accept the values of war. But there are other ways than war to bring us the warmth of race, shoulder to shoulder, towards an identical goal. War has tricked us. It is not true that hatred adds anything to the exaltation of the race.
Why should we hate one another? We all live in the same cause, are born through life on the same planet, form the crew of the same ship. Civilizations may, indeed, compete to bring forth new syntheses, but it is monstrous that they should devour one another.
To set man free it is enough that we help one another to realize that there does exist a goal towards which all mankind is striving. Why should we not strive towards that goal together, since it is what unites us all? The surgeon pays no heed to the moaning of his patient: beyond that pain it is man he is seeking to heal. That surgeon speaks a universal language. The physicist does the dame when he ponders those almost divine equations in which he seizes the whole physical universe from the atom to the nebula. Even the simple shepherd modestly watching his sheep under the stars would discover, once he understood the part he was playing, that he was something more than a servant, was a sentinel. And each sentinel among men is responsible for the whole of the empire."
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
just letting off steam... the Native American Issue
There is one societal group in which I have invested much time to study and research that serves as a devastating example to the “Price of Progress” by John Bodley. They are a nation who have paid which their lives, many of their languages and with them, the complexities of their cultures. These people, are the Native Americans. Here, listed bellow, are eight out of the top 10 poorest counties in the United States. All are either on reservations or are demographically Native American in majority.
1) Buffalo County (Crow Creek Indian Rez)
2) Shannon County (Pine Ridge Rez)
3) Ziebach County (72% NA)
4) Todd County (Rosebudd Rez)
5) Sioux County (Standing Rock Rez)
6) Corson County (Standing Rock Rez)
7) Wade Hampton, AK (92% NA)
8) Apache County, AZ (Navajo Nation)
Buffalo County, of the Crow Creek Reservations rakes in $5,213 per capita income. These tribes/nations were once thriving, healthy people who roaming (primarily) nomadically across North America. These are the results after about 300 years of European settler contacts. Despite the initial goal of ethnically cleansing the Native American people, the main intention of the white conquerors was to bring Native Americans into white society to improve their way of life. Native Americans today suffer in health greatly from alcohol related problems and diabetes caused from bad diet on a low income foods. These health issues are detrimental to the continuation of their various cultures and histories because they serve as poverty-derived distractions. A common feature among many tribal, native or conquered peoples of the world.
1) Buffalo County (Crow Creek Indian Rez)
2) Shannon County (Pine Ridge Rez)
3) Ziebach County (72% NA)
4) Todd County (Rosebudd Rez)
5) Sioux County (Standing Rock Rez)
6) Corson County (Standing Rock Rez)
7) Wade Hampton, AK (92% NA)
8) Apache County, AZ (Navajo Nation)
Buffalo County, of the Crow Creek Reservations rakes in $5,213 per capita income. These tribes/nations were once thriving, healthy people who roaming (primarily) nomadically across North America. These are the results after about 300 years of European settler contacts. Despite the initial goal of ethnically cleansing the Native American people, the main intention of the white conquerors was to bring Native Americans into white society to improve their way of life. Native Americans today suffer in health greatly from alcohol related problems and diabetes caused from bad diet on a low income foods. These health issues are detrimental to the continuation of their various cultures and histories because they serve as poverty-derived distractions. A common feature among many tribal, native or conquered peoples of the world.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Thoughts on 3 Critical Ethical Qualities
Compassion; actively reaching for unconditional love for all matter, which is realized through
Observance; focus, awareness and observation strengthens one's compassion and enhances knowledge while promoting
Patience; the ability to find content in the present moment, and to release of the need to attain a certain thing in a certain way at a certain time.
Observance; focus, awareness and observation strengthens one's compassion and enhances knowledge while promoting
Patience; the ability to find content in the present moment, and to release of the need to attain a certain thing in a certain way at a certain time.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
You are a miraculous collection of innumerable possibilities
You are fine. You are excited to be right where you are. Have no doubts, they do nothing for you. Keep giving, your heart, your energies, your many positive attributes. Keep breathing, keep feeling, keep listening. Yet, be a passive listener to your thoughts - lend them credit, but give them no power. You know very well the causation, and roots of your thoughts.
You are not your thoughts. You are a miraculous collection of innumerable possibilities.
No eres tus pensamientos....
y esta bien si olvidas a veces.
You are not your thoughts. You are a miraculous collection of innumerable possibilities.
No eres tus pensamientos....
y esta bien si olvidas a veces.
Friday, January 23, 2009
You Hang on Faith Ach Sheli
She rushed through the halls of the building packed with the many people who claimed ownership of its rooms. They were screaming and bleeding and yelling at each other, and their faces blurred into a frenzy of swirling masses. A gunshot cried out, and the bearded Lebuvovitch next to her fell to the ground, his hands raised to Adonai with a streaming down the cracks of the linoleum floor. The girl panicked and ran to the staircase at the end of the hall, squeezing her way through the sea of broad shoulders. Two Arab men flew down the steps past her, as fast as their elderly legs could carry them. On their heels, a small group of armed Zionist soldiers chased after them, and pushed the girl roughly into the wall. The young lieutenant leading the pack threw tear gas in front of the Arabs, and they collapsed. But the bullets riddled their bodies before they had hit the ground. The girl kept running, jumping over their bloody puddles. She collided into another girl holding the Qu’ran to her chest. The book dropped into the puddle with a splash, and the other girl began to sob, crazed with sudden grief. The girl continued running, jumping over the heaving body of the other girl. Upon reaching the second level, she grabbed the railing as she slid to the ground.
Her heartbeat pumped violently, and all other sounds became a violent, muffled throbbing her in head. She had lost her room in the building, and her family with it. Nobody seemed to be able to be able to claim a room in the building for more than a year without bloodshed. Even the Jews who’d supposedly owned most of the building the longest; their own leaders would sometimes force families to leave and find new rooms to squeeze into. The girl savored the deafening moment of internal solitude at the stair rail. She begged only for G-d to take away all of her senses, so she could not longer feel, so she would not longer have to flee. In the darkness of her tightly shut eyes, a cold edge sliced smoothly into the side of her neck. The pain was sharp, and the world of chaos crystallized into clarity in that instant, slapping her promptly out of her daze. A young man’s voice whispered into her ear from behind, “Allah o akbar!”
The room to where she awoke was large and empty, and a dead blue light fell through the misted window above her. Her hands were bound and her body ached from bruising. Slowly, a figure emerged from the shadows. He circled her three times with a posture bent and pained; yet lacking injury. She could not see his face, and he could only see the blue glow of her nose and eyelids from the downward cast light.
“Yesh lecha zman?”
“Ekhresi!”
“Atah m’dah ber anglit?”
“Ekhresi!”
“English, do you speak it?”
He paused, and retreated back into the shadows. She listened carefully to his movements: he sat in a chair and twirled something hard and heavy on the ground. She imagined it to be a large gun.
“Yes, I speak it.”
He lit a candle, and carried it slowly to her, sitting on the floor not four feet away and setting the flame between them.
“I do not want you to speak to me any more,” he said coldly and firm.
“I am going to die. I want to use my last breaths reaching to someone.”
They were now staring at each other; one with the last strength of softness in her brow line, and the other with emptiness to all but his sad, pained eyes.
“You are my hostage. When they come for you, I am going to pull this string,” he pointed to a loose strand of rope escaping from a hole from the seem under his arm, “then you will all die.”
“Why do you want to kill us?”
“Because you killed my father, and then my mother, and then my brother.” His voice quivered and she watched a tear stream, he was no older than she at eighteen. “You took our corridor from my grandfather. You took the water we used to drink and clean our clothes. You took the money we used to feed ourselves,” a terrible pause, “You even took away the people who wanted to help us!” His cry was piercing, and her heart jumped and pushed forth her own tears.
“I’m sorry ach sheli” He hit her and turned his face.
“Don’t speak that language to me!”
“Do you hate me?”
“Ai’wa”
“Well I do not hate you.”
He sneered an intelligible sentence, and walked over to a corner where he slid onto the ground. “What are you trying to do, Jew?”
“I’m convincing you to let me live.”
“You convince me of nothing.”
“I am succeeding as we speak.”
“You’ll speak no more.” he said sternly and pointed a finger at her. “We’ve had too much talk already. We are done trying to talk to you people.”
She then lay down on the cement. Her shoulders ached from her twisted arms that were tied at the wrists behind her back. The boy just watched her with the same emptiness he had before, yet the darkness under his eyes had lightened. The tapping of his knife to the floor kept her eyes only fluttering as she tried to fall into sleep.
And she did sleep. She slept deeply, and peacefully.
“You must let me live.” She moaned as she opened her eyes to search for him in the darkness.
With a laugh he replied, “and why should I do that? Through away my eternal happiness and the security of my family for a Jewish girl?”
“Killing me, yourself, and a dozen other Jews with really give you happiness?”
Again, he gave her a terrible pause, “yes” he said weakly.
“I do not think that you believe this yourself.”
“Enshallah it will happen.”
“You hesitated before you spoke.”
“Must we always answer so fast? Steadiness and consideration of speech does not mean confusion. You Jews do not seem to understand this.”
She sat up again, “But your cause, it hangs on faith, not certainty ach sheli.”
“I am doing my part of the struggle. I am fighting for change, not sitting around waiting for help… that will never come.”
“You struggle in vain – and you’ve accepted my attempts at kinship.”
“Ekhresi!” He cried, and kicked her in the stomach. “Do not call me ‘ach sheli’ again!” The girl whimpered with fluttering breaths. It was not long before she inhaled deeply and withdrew a long, sad face.
“Your anger and hatred will live on in death, but it will be passed on and will give power to those you have afflicted.” They stared at each other for several moments, solemnly, sympathetically, “and so the wheel will keep turning.”
“Why are you smiling at me?”
“Because I am hoping that you will take some of my happiness.”
“I have made a mistake, you are not a Jew, are you?” He stared quizzically at the gold Star of David at her chest, and rolled back onto his elbows. “Who are you?”
“S’licha. And who are you?”
“…Saïd”
“What was your mother’s name, Said?”
He looked frightened and confused, and lifted himself to sit straight. “Khalifah” he said softly, and put his hands on his knees.
“My mother’s name was Zohra.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because we have both lost our mothers. I want you to see that the pain in me is the same as the pain in you. For G-d or nation, our souls are all of one.”
“I am going to finish what I’ve started,” Said went to the window and peered down, “There are Jews and Arabs everywhere down there, they are killing each other with their bare hands.” He looked disgusted.
S’licha curled into the ground and planted her head to the floor, “Do you feel this earth?” she asked
Saïd turned to her, and watched. He was curious by her strange questions and movements.
“Do you feel it Saïd? The earth under your feet?” she persisted
“Ee.”
“All people fighting in this building can too.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to set me free.”
His laugh was uneasy, with a forceful strain behind it.
“I want you to set me free so we can stop this violence”
“We?”
“We. We’ll do it together.”
“Now how is that possible?”
“The Arabs will listen to you, you are one of them and speak their language, and the Jews will listen to me. We will explain how we are connected. How we are all energy, life on the earth. We will explain to them how our differences come from suffering, and we will explain to them how peace in mind and limitless compassion are the only escape from suffering.”
“If I fail this mission, if I do not pull this string, if I do not kill at least you, they will never listen to me.”
“So you will kill me, and then preach love and compassion towards all people?”
Saïd’s face grew sad.
“Come and sit with me a while.”
“Sit and do what?”
“Breathe, Saïd, breathe.”
Saïd watched her hesitantly. S’licha’s offer sat in front of him calmly. Her offer risked him his family, his community, his life. The boy had suffered in the beautiful old building his entire life at the hands of S’licha’s people, and now, bound and beaten at his feet, she meditated in front of him, with a soft smile on her lips. Said walked over next to her and sat down.
The light in the window was turning yellow as the sun rose from the sky, and two young people sat on their knees silently looking upwards in a bare room, clean of memory and affiliation. The dwindling candle shimmered between them, its orange light licking the sides of their faces, and the shadow of their rising and falling chests shivered with the unsteadiness of the light. Cold, musty air skimmed their nostrils and trickled down their throats into quivering lungs. Each breath quelled their straining calmness. Each breath softened the light around them. Saïd’s hands were open to the brightness of the window above, and S’licha’s opened to the darkness, stopping the demons behind her. Each breath took in the warmth of the little light. Each breath built a stronger barrier from distractions in the dark.
They sat there for many hours. They sat there until their lips dried and their stomachs sank inward with hunger. No one came for the girl’s rescue. No one came to aid the boy’s mission. As the sun began to dip over the horizon, and room began to drain of light, Saïd flipped the razor from his side suddenly stood. He looked down on the girl darkly and descended upon her with the knife facing heaven. Swiftly, he tore loose woven bounds around her wrists, and stumbled backward. Just as his knees buckled, S’licha lunged over to catch him in her arms, and the Said wept openly into her steady frame – his muscles relaxed and weakened.
“Hold onto me” she said, and rose slowly.
They clutched each other with their lives as they made their way to the door. The boy grasped onto her stability, and the girl relied upon his honor. Stepping out of the empty room and into the hallway, they froze in its icy stillness. Not a soul loomed. The faint echoes of memories cried in its emptiness, and time relieved himself of his duties. There was no one left to save.
Translations
Yesh lecha zman – Do you have time? (hebrew)
Ekhresi – shut up/shut your mouth (female) (arabic)
Atah m’da ber anglit? – Do you speak English? (hebrew)
Ee/Ai’wa – Yes (arabic)
Ach sheli – my brother (hebrew)
S’licha – Excuse Me (hebrew)
Allah o akbar – God is great (arabic)
Enshallah – god willing (arabic)
Her heartbeat pumped violently, and all other sounds became a violent, muffled throbbing her in head. She had lost her room in the building, and her family with it. Nobody seemed to be able to be able to claim a room in the building for more than a year without bloodshed. Even the Jews who’d supposedly owned most of the building the longest; their own leaders would sometimes force families to leave and find new rooms to squeeze into. The girl savored the deafening moment of internal solitude at the stair rail. She begged only for G-d to take away all of her senses, so she could not longer feel, so she would not longer have to flee. In the darkness of her tightly shut eyes, a cold edge sliced smoothly into the side of her neck. The pain was sharp, and the world of chaos crystallized into clarity in that instant, slapping her promptly out of her daze. A young man’s voice whispered into her ear from behind, “Allah o akbar!”
The room to where she awoke was large and empty, and a dead blue light fell through the misted window above her. Her hands were bound and her body ached from bruising. Slowly, a figure emerged from the shadows. He circled her three times with a posture bent and pained; yet lacking injury. She could not see his face, and he could only see the blue glow of her nose and eyelids from the downward cast light.
“Yesh lecha zman?”
“Ekhresi!”
“Atah m’dah ber anglit?”
“Ekhresi!”
“English, do you speak it?”
He paused, and retreated back into the shadows. She listened carefully to his movements: he sat in a chair and twirled something hard and heavy on the ground. She imagined it to be a large gun.
“Yes, I speak it.”
He lit a candle, and carried it slowly to her, sitting on the floor not four feet away and setting the flame between them.
“I do not want you to speak to me any more,” he said coldly and firm.
“I am going to die. I want to use my last breaths reaching to someone.”
They were now staring at each other; one with the last strength of softness in her brow line, and the other with emptiness to all but his sad, pained eyes.
“You are my hostage. When they come for you, I am going to pull this string,” he pointed to a loose strand of rope escaping from a hole from the seem under his arm, “then you will all die.”
“Why do you want to kill us?”
“Because you killed my father, and then my mother, and then my brother.” His voice quivered and she watched a tear stream, he was no older than she at eighteen. “You took our corridor from my grandfather. You took the water we used to drink and clean our clothes. You took the money we used to feed ourselves,” a terrible pause, “You even took away the people who wanted to help us!” His cry was piercing, and her heart jumped and pushed forth her own tears.
“I’m sorry ach sheli” He hit her and turned his face.
“Don’t speak that language to me!”
“Do you hate me?”
“Ai’wa”
“Well I do not hate you.”
He sneered an intelligible sentence, and walked over to a corner where he slid onto the ground. “What are you trying to do, Jew?”
“I’m convincing you to let me live.”
“You convince me of nothing.”
“I am succeeding as we speak.”
“You’ll speak no more.” he said sternly and pointed a finger at her. “We’ve had too much talk already. We are done trying to talk to you people.”
She then lay down on the cement. Her shoulders ached from her twisted arms that were tied at the wrists behind her back. The boy just watched her with the same emptiness he had before, yet the darkness under his eyes had lightened. The tapping of his knife to the floor kept her eyes only fluttering as she tried to fall into sleep.
And she did sleep. She slept deeply, and peacefully.
“You must let me live.” She moaned as she opened her eyes to search for him in the darkness.
With a laugh he replied, “and why should I do that? Through away my eternal happiness and the security of my family for a Jewish girl?”
“Killing me, yourself, and a dozen other Jews with really give you happiness?”
Again, he gave her a terrible pause, “yes” he said weakly.
“I do not think that you believe this yourself.”
“Enshallah it will happen.”
“You hesitated before you spoke.”
“Must we always answer so fast? Steadiness and consideration of speech does not mean confusion. You Jews do not seem to understand this.”
She sat up again, “But your cause, it hangs on faith, not certainty ach sheli.”
“I am doing my part of the struggle. I am fighting for change, not sitting around waiting for help… that will never come.”
“You struggle in vain – and you’ve accepted my attempts at kinship.”
“Ekhresi!” He cried, and kicked her in the stomach. “Do not call me ‘ach sheli’ again!” The girl whimpered with fluttering breaths. It was not long before she inhaled deeply and withdrew a long, sad face.
“Your anger and hatred will live on in death, but it will be passed on and will give power to those you have afflicted.” They stared at each other for several moments, solemnly, sympathetically, “and so the wheel will keep turning.”
“Why are you smiling at me?”
“Because I am hoping that you will take some of my happiness.”
“I have made a mistake, you are not a Jew, are you?” He stared quizzically at the gold Star of David at her chest, and rolled back onto his elbows. “Who are you?”
“S’licha. And who are you?”
“…Saïd”
“What was your mother’s name, Said?”
He looked frightened and confused, and lifted himself to sit straight. “Khalifah” he said softly, and put his hands on his knees.
“My mother’s name was Zohra.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because we have both lost our mothers. I want you to see that the pain in me is the same as the pain in you. For G-d or nation, our souls are all of one.”
“I am going to finish what I’ve started,” Said went to the window and peered down, “There are Jews and Arabs everywhere down there, they are killing each other with their bare hands.” He looked disgusted.
S’licha curled into the ground and planted her head to the floor, “Do you feel this earth?” she asked
Saïd turned to her, and watched. He was curious by her strange questions and movements.
“Do you feel it Saïd? The earth under your feet?” she persisted
“Ee.”
“All people fighting in this building can too.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to set me free.”
His laugh was uneasy, with a forceful strain behind it.
“I want you to set me free so we can stop this violence”
“We?”
“We. We’ll do it together.”
“Now how is that possible?”
“The Arabs will listen to you, you are one of them and speak their language, and the Jews will listen to me. We will explain how we are connected. How we are all energy, life on the earth. We will explain to them how our differences come from suffering, and we will explain to them how peace in mind and limitless compassion are the only escape from suffering.”
“If I fail this mission, if I do not pull this string, if I do not kill at least you, they will never listen to me.”
“So you will kill me, and then preach love and compassion towards all people?”
Saïd’s face grew sad.
“Come and sit with me a while.”
“Sit and do what?”
“Breathe, Saïd, breathe.”
Saïd watched her hesitantly. S’licha’s offer sat in front of him calmly. Her offer risked him his family, his community, his life. The boy had suffered in the beautiful old building his entire life at the hands of S’licha’s people, and now, bound and beaten at his feet, she meditated in front of him, with a soft smile on her lips. Said walked over next to her and sat down.
The light in the window was turning yellow as the sun rose from the sky, and two young people sat on their knees silently looking upwards in a bare room, clean of memory and affiliation. The dwindling candle shimmered between them, its orange light licking the sides of their faces, and the shadow of their rising and falling chests shivered with the unsteadiness of the light. Cold, musty air skimmed their nostrils and trickled down their throats into quivering lungs. Each breath quelled their straining calmness. Each breath softened the light around them. Saïd’s hands were open to the brightness of the window above, and S’licha’s opened to the darkness, stopping the demons behind her. Each breath took in the warmth of the little light. Each breath built a stronger barrier from distractions in the dark.
They sat there for many hours. They sat there until their lips dried and their stomachs sank inward with hunger. No one came for the girl’s rescue. No one came to aid the boy’s mission. As the sun began to dip over the horizon, and room began to drain of light, Saïd flipped the razor from his side suddenly stood. He looked down on the girl darkly and descended upon her with the knife facing heaven. Swiftly, he tore loose woven bounds around her wrists, and stumbled backward. Just as his knees buckled, S’licha lunged over to catch him in her arms, and the Said wept openly into her steady frame – his muscles relaxed and weakened.
“Hold onto me” she said, and rose slowly.
They clutched each other with their lives as they made their way to the door. The boy grasped onto her stability, and the girl relied upon his honor. Stepping out of the empty room and into the hallway, they froze in its icy stillness. Not a soul loomed. The faint echoes of memories cried in its emptiness, and time relieved himself of his duties. There was no one left to save.
Translations
Yesh lecha zman – Do you have time? (hebrew)
Ekhresi – shut up/shut your mouth (female) (arabic)
Atah m’da ber anglit? – Do you speak English? (hebrew)
Ee/Ai’wa – Yes (arabic)
Ach sheli – my brother (hebrew)
S’licha – Excuse Me (hebrew)
Allah o akbar – God is great (arabic)
Enshallah – god willing (arabic)
Poetry old and new
You Can't Do This Alone (1/21/09)
You can’t do this alone. You can’t do this alone. You can’t be here and do this alone.
I am free as a bird, but who said birds were ever free? They are trapped within the confines of bodily ability. God made them that way.
You can’t do this alone, because I want to be with you.
I don’t only want to be with you, I want to be part of you… your other half, your other whole, the flour to your bread.
Om penetrates us as the cocks fight for flesh and blood.
Om penetrates us as the bullets of Sarajevo massacred the sky.
Om penetrates us like the dawning of motherhood.
Om penetrates us as we wake up,
As we sit with our eyes open
As we listen with our ears uncovered
With our skin unclothed
Our hearts unshielded,
Om penetrates us.
Just as love penetrates us, relentlessly. With no particularly appointed victim, is hunts and ambushes with such force, the blood from our veins flows into the open streets for everyone to see our very own special shade of crimson.
You can’t do this alone. Love is a two way street, you need a good set of blinkers and a loud horn to avoid a crash. A loud horn to call out to one another. You know that love is not silent; so I need to hear your voice.
untitled (summer '08) -from my travel journal
Dream dream day and night.
Hypnosis is exhausting
It leaks and itches into the most sensitive nerves of you heart.
It opens the world of unaccountable sentiments
I’m looking for something real,
But being under the deep sleep of waiting,
time is creating
wonderful illusions.
You can’t do this alone. You can’t do this alone. You can’t be here and do this alone.
I am free as a bird, but who said birds were ever free? They are trapped within the confines of bodily ability. God made them that way.
You can’t do this alone, because I want to be with you.
I don’t only want to be with you, I want to be part of you… your other half, your other whole, the flour to your bread.
Om penetrates us as the cocks fight for flesh and blood.
Om penetrates us as the bullets of Sarajevo massacred the sky.
Om penetrates us like the dawning of motherhood.
Om penetrates us as we wake up,
As we sit with our eyes open
As we listen with our ears uncovered
With our skin unclothed
Our hearts unshielded,
Om penetrates us.
Just as love penetrates us, relentlessly. With no particularly appointed victim, is hunts and ambushes with such force, the blood from our veins flows into the open streets for everyone to see our very own special shade of crimson.
You can’t do this alone. Love is a two way street, you need a good set of blinkers and a loud horn to avoid a crash. A loud horn to call out to one another. You know that love is not silent; so I need to hear your voice.
untitled (summer '08) -from my travel journal
Dream dream day and night.
Hypnosis is exhausting
It leaks and itches into the most sensitive nerves of you heart.
It opens the world of unaccountable sentiments
I’m looking for something real,
But being under the deep sleep of waiting,
time is creating
wonderful illusions.
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