Reb Nathan asked me a good question, and I'd like to try to answer it if I can.
~
How does one learn to love every Jew? In what magical way can we transcend boundaries and labels in order to make that happen, loving people for what they are and not for their affiliation? How can we look to see the person rather than the trappings; how can we see further than the symbols that immediately occur to us?
I think the answer is to consider what it is we love in people to begin with. I believe that we love sincerity, authenticity, what is genuine and true in a person. We love whatever it is in them that leads them to practice in accordance to their ideals, to seek and to search out the truth, no matter where it may lead them. We love their honesty, their passion, the fact that they have risked everything as far as that is concerned. And so, in order to love every Jew, ideally, we must meet a Jew of each sect who embodies this passion, this idealism, this search for the self and for God. We must meet Jews who are pained, anguished by their choices, but who could not choose differently. And it is at this point that we learn to love every Jew, because we have learned to appreciate in them something beautiful, and through that, we have learned to understand them.
I have been privileged to meet Jews of the main divisions who fulfill this every criteria. One of my best friends is a Reform Jew, and he humbles me in his dedication and desire for the Land of Israel, and the pride that he takes in his Jewish identity. He has many times told me of the pride he feels in being a Member of the Tribe, and every time that I am with him I can see it in his face, the joy and the grandeur that it is for him to be Jewish. And so, from him I learn the importance of pride in my people, my destiny and my heritage. From him more than anyone else do I see it displayed. I see his concern for his fellow Reform Jews who have no or little respect for their heritage, having survived their Hebrew School Education, they have forgotten the meaning of the word. And I see, too, how it flames in his face. To me he is the epitome of the words that Rav Kook are supposed to have said, "The holy feet that kick the holy ball," when speaking of Jews who play soccer on Sabbath. It is my firm belief that people such as my friend serve God as well, in their own way, to the best of their ability. The fact that he has determined to live in Israel if possible, that the land inflames him with passion and brings him joy, that no dark clouds can settle upon him in the "land of milk and honey," that in every way he identifies with Jewish culture and with every Jew who is important to him- whether it be poet or musician- all this to me demonstrates his sincerity and his love. And thus it is easy to love him, and by extension to love all Reform Jews. Because there is also the question of taking into account the opportunities offered these people. One cannot blame someone who is Reform for the redactions made by those who are their leaders. They were born into Reform Judaism, and like most people, they remain where they were situated. With the knowledge that they have and the ideals that have been cultivated in them, some will shine and some will live their normal lives, but each person has the ability to be sincere in his own fashion, and I have met one who is sincere.
My cousins are Conservative. My Scarsdale cousins, of whom I have written so often, are Conservative, and beautifully so. They are absolutely beautiful people, with a relationship to people which astonishes and moves me. They are always willing to help me, and what is more to help others. They are respectful of my family and our religious practices. I cannot count the number of times they have hosted us for Shabbat, making sure that everything was newly purchased or set on paper plates so that absolutely everything was kosher and available per our expectations. My cousin Yechiel is the leader of a USY Group and clearly identifies with his religion, desiring at some point to join the IDF. Another cousin of mine, Pamela, graduated from JTS after having done extensive work in the field of Jewish Studies. Pamela has affiliated herself with many different causes and charities, working for Children of Chernobyl and participating in danceathons in order to raise money for others. Her uniquely social personality does not in any way negate her strong Jewish identity and Jewish pride. The same can be said of my cousin Josh, who attended Brandeis after having been extremely active in USY and other groups. And this is to say nothing of any kind of Bnei Akiva involvement, or other outside activities. The ability to affiliate as Conservative and nevertheless take pride in one's Judaism and one's service to God is absolutely there. I have seen it with my own eyes. So it is easy to love anyone who is Conservative as well.
Now we venture into perhaps more familiar territory for many of you, the realm of the Modern Orthodox. Here, one is conflicted, because there are so many different types of Modern Orthodox. We have the philosophically Modern Orthodox who adhere to the ideals espoused by the various Rabbanim, and we have the culturally Modern Orthodox who participate in a socially acceptable form of Judaism. And oddly enough, I can love both of these people, even while I disagree with the way of living of the cultural set. The way to love people is to identify in them something that they have to teach you, a lesson that you must learn, something which you are unable to find in yourself. When you realize what that is, you will love them at the very least, out of gratitude, for they have taught you something you did not know before. If you are unable to find a point of commonality that way, the next thing to do is to try to look at the person to see what it is that bothers you about them, what flaw they have. You will often find that you either share or have shared that flaw yourself, which is why you are able to identify it. If not that, one simply reflects upon oneself and realizes that one has other flaws, just as this person is flawed, and that is not a reason to hate anybody. Once one recognizes the point of commonality, it is easy to love. It is also easy to love anybody who is trying. One of the most important things to keep in mind, and this was a lesson that was modelled for me by my parents but said to me most explicitly by my friend Marc Fein, is that people do not come from the same set of opportunities. I may have been given the opportunity to study and approach my Judaism in an academic forum, with all the questions I wanted to ask, and all the ideas at my disposal, but that does not mean many others have been. And so for me to immediately dismiss them because I do not like the way they practice means I am judging them as I would myself, a statement I would often use in defense- "But I wouldn't do it." Yet it is necessary to judge people in a completely different manner than one judges oneself, for they haven't had the opportunities you had, and they are doing the best with what they are given- they are trying their absolute best with what they have. And in that capacity, I respect every effort that people make, even if I believe it to be mistaken or misguided.
From Modern Orthodox we reach those whom one would term Haredi. Now, even within the Haredi community there are thinking and non-thinking members, those who adhere to the current for philosophical reasons and those who adhere to it simply because they are comfortable in that stratosphere. Since most of my exposure to that community has been to the latter, I had originally formed a rather negative opinion of it, especially due to my penchant of desiring things to be explained to me. But all it takes is one person, and once you meet one person who embodies the ideals of a community in a thoughtful manner, you are able to judge everyone else favorably. For me, this person was Jordan. Jordan lives the ideals of the Haredi community, whether it be in his service to God, his learning, or the way in which he explains his beliefs, and I respect all those who live by their ideals, and practice in accordance to them as well. In Jordan I could find the sincerity, genuineness and authenticity that enables me to respect others.
And now we reach the group whom I perhaps love best, the skeptics, atheists and those who went off-the-derech. I know this group intimately well, for the simple fact that I understand the thought behind such a process. There are different types of skeptics, atheists and irreligious Jews, of course, and far be it from me to force them all into one category. However, I believe I understand the two main derivations. Those of you who left our religion due to the cruelty you had practiced upon you, the stifling nature of its constituency, the negative experiences you had and the fact that you were taught as a rule that you could not fulfill your dreams within its bounds, I have been you, and still am you at times. And those of you who left after intellectual inquiry, having been persuaded by the science of our times, or the history, or whatever else it was you found which did not seem to stand before the Torah, I respect you. Because to me what this means is that your religion mattered enough for you to struggle, to invest the time and the energy into working through it and trying to prove it right, or more importantly, trying to follow wherever your search took you. And I believe that when you go up to God, you can honestly say that you tried your hardest to discover Him, and that your search was not an apathetic one, but a passionate one, fraught with meaning, and yet you did not. And so perhaps to the skeptic or atheist most of all, religion has meaning, for it was the fact that it had meaning which led him to question it and finally to leave it.
So how is it possible to love every Jew? It is possible to love the part in them that is pure, that is good, the burning ember as the Maggid of Dubno would term it. It is possible to love every Jew for whatever it is they have that I would like to embody myself, whether it be pride in their Jewish identity, the kindness they show to others, the passion and fervor with which they infuse their observance (or lack thereof), the truthful nature of their search. Every Jew has something to teach me, something which I have yet to learn, and can only learn from them. And this is to say nothing of people in general, for I believe it is quite possible to love the majority of the world, which includes our gentiles as well. It is possible to love every person who tries, who strives to be a good person in the best way they know how, who desires in some way to come close to a form of meaning in their life- and most people do. We will not all find the same path, and we do not all have the same route to God, but there is no doubt in my mind that we all desire that meaning, and we find it as it comes to us. There is beauty in everyone, and each person embodies a different facet of that beauty, no matter whether he be righteous or a sinner, perfect or flawed. It is easy to love everyone if one sees them as an extension of oneself, whom one loves most of all. And especially with Judaism, this is only the truth- I am an extension of you, and you are an extension of me, and hence, if I love what is good in myself, I will search for that good in you as well, and love you for it even as I do me.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Moshe
To me, Moshe symbolizes purity.
By this I mean purity of the soul, purity of his search for truth, purity in the way that he strives after his God and his religion, the way in which he second guesses himself and tries to ensure that everything he does is for the right and the good. Moshe is not the sort to take, but rather to give. He has had an absolutely beautiful journey, and the process has taken its toll on him. But Moshe exists in the here and now to give, to illuminate, to shed light upon others and to redeem them from the suffering that looms ahead. Moshe exists to be a saviour.
It is in this way that the Moshe I know in many ways reminds me of the Moshe in the Bible. Unassuming, humble and truly modest, what is most important is the quest he has had, the fight for the truth while at the same time retaining his tolerance and appreciation for all others. Moshe grew up in a black-and-white world, a world where ideas were clearly delineated and fell into camps of true and false. Growing up under the auspices of such a world, where all was regulated and understood, he experienced much that was beautiful. Moshe learned to serve God with a passion that he still retains, to pray before him and learn in a service that took all his mental acuity and caused him to smoulder with caring. The way in which he relates to God, the meaning behind his very religion, is something that has been taught and modeled for him by people whom he respects, despite the fact that he has chosen to live a lifestyle that deviates from theirs.
Moshe is courageous in that he had the ability to stand firm, to work it through and choose the philosophy which he believes is true, the one by which he will lead his life. But what is far more beautiful about Moshe is his caring and reverence for those whom he still honors and respects, for those who have been important and influential in his life. There are many who believe that they owe their parents nothing, they owe those who have helped to form and transform them nothing, so long as they themselves are happy. This pursuit of happiness is ultimately doomed to failure, for it is a pursuit that does not take into account others, that does not demonstrate to them how integral and important they have been in the process, in the very journey that has made them the person that they are today. But Moshe takes all that into account. And in this way, Moshe reminds me of the Moses in the Bible, the one who was forbidden to hit the sand or the water due to the concept of gratitude, for it was the sand and water that had saved his life even as a child.
Moshe practices gratitude in a way that puts others to shame. He is very aware of the different influences upon his life, and the different worlds that have created him. Born in what I shall loosely term the Haredi world, Moshe has steadily moved into more of the Modern Orthodox realm. But in reality, he has that rare power and ability to walk both worlds. One would initially think this a blessing, but in truth it is more of a curse. Part of both camps, able to see both sides, Moshe does not want to betray either one- he does not wish to hurt those he loves, but at the same time he does not wish to give up his ideals. And so he walks the tightrope, and prays he does not fall.
There is so much that goes into the making of a person, so much that transforms and creates him. There are the worlds in which he lives, the ideas to which he is exposed, his family life and structure, and what is perhaps most important, the others who touch his life. Moshe has taken everything he can from his meetings with different people, always striving to see what is unique in that particular individual and learn from them, perhaps wishing to possess the quality that comes so naturally to them. He has done his best to see all that is cheerful in the world, in the hopes that he might cheer another person when they are down. The very profession that he has chosen, that of medicine, allows him to be a saviour in yet another form. There are different kinds of doctors- those who know what it means to be human, and those who have hardened, and no longer see their patients as people with lives and backstories, only as subjects. Moshe is the sort who sees his patients as human, and whom I believe always well. He has an exquisite ability to feel pain and to feel compassion. And it is this, perhaps more than anything, that allows him the unique insight into the lives of others that causes him the pain which has created him.
What can one do if one is Moshe? Here he is, watching the world, observing it, allowing it to touch him and affect him. The world is not a disconnected entity but part of him, part of what causes him to live and breathe, to make him move, to cause him to feel. The sun rises and Moshe feels joy- the touch of nature in the world, the greenery, the summer day with its lazy breeze- all this invigorates Moshe, allowing him access to part of the beauty that exists in our world. And yet, all this is forgotten when Moshe is at work and sees a patient who is being eaten alive by cancer- a sight so awful that he will almost cry. And this is because Moshe has not forgotten what it means to be human, but chooses to keep hold of it, chooses to remind himself that every person he sees is a man, a man to be respected, understood and to whom one must listen, a man who is an exquisite creation of God's. It would be easy for Moshe to accustom himself to the dead- to treat the cadavers as simple subjects, to make callous jokes about them. But Moshe forbids himself this luxury, because he prefers to feel the pain of what it means to be human.
Much of life is lived in pain, for pain is transformative, and it creates people. Moshe has had his share of pain. How could it be otherwise? Loving his parents and his family, he nevertheless chose to pursue his dream and his calling, living by a set of ideals which are more true for him. At the same time, how could this not feel like a betrayal? And how could it be possible for him of all people to perpetrate this upon someone else, to cause another to suffer, to cause them any unhappiness? It has not been easy for him. But Moshe is not the sort to focus upon the difficulty caused him- on the contrary, it is the pain he believes he has caused others which occupies his mind. Moshe would never desire to cause anyone he loves any kind of hurt; it is the one thought that wounds him. He has never desired to be and never would want to take pleasure in another's pain, even to do something self-serving, where he will benefit at the expense of another.
Moshe gives, and he gives whole-heartedly. I personally know of people whom Moshe has driven to their destination and back, all with a smile, without the faintest touch of resentment or the least desire to receive something in return. I know of times where Moshe has made time he did not have, created an opportunity to listen to someone despite the fact that it required rearranging his schedule. I know of his humility, his sweetness, his caring, his thoughtfulness. I know how refined and pure a soul he has, of the ways in which he has struggled in order to retain that purity. And I know, too, that he has had his own descent into darkness, and he has also had the wherewithal to withstand it, and to look past its seductive lure.
To be a doctor requires one to understand pain, to understand human suffering. If you do not understand, how can you serve the needs of others? How will you stand before your patients and see them for who they are, despite the way in which they might behave, despite the testiness, anger or irritation they might exhibit? For Moshe, this will not be a problem. For Moshe is an empath, a man who truly feels for others in pain. He feels so deeply that at times he must not show it, lest he break. These are the times when he must take refuge in something else, anything else, so as to escape from his own mind and his thoughts, the sadness that holds him captive.
It is difficult to be extraordinary. It is not a task that is assigned to everyone, nor a burden that is placed on everyone. Not everyone has the capacity to tolerate that much confusion, the mental indecision and the ultimate realization that one must fight through everything important, create a mentality and worldview that is binding, after thinking and rethinking to ensure one has not made mistakes. Not everyone has the ability to care so much for those whom they have, in the eyes of others, abandoned due to their choices. Not everyone walks around shouldering the burdens of others, and not everyone makes it his life's work to give to others, to give to them in every way possible, through every action, at every moment. But there could be no more fitting profession for Moshe than that of physician. Because there is no man more suited to give, to serve his people and his God in this way, to cure the ailments which torture him, to bring a little joy into a world which has its share of darkness. Moshe was born to be extraordinary, and it is a task which marks him, creates him as someone separate, someone special, someone different, someone chosen. It is never easy to be chosen.
But there are some who have no choice.
Moshe, the path you walk is difficult, and if there could have been another way, another way in truth, that you would honestly feel to be true, you would have taken it. But you can only walk the road that you see as true, and do your utmost while on that path, to dispense kindness to all, to teach as many as you can, to give in every way possible, to cure to fulfill, not only the oath you have sworn, but the deep need within yourself to do so. You are one who must make the world a better place tangibly, so as to give himself purpose and meaning. You exist for this.
And due to your existence, the world has been made more beautiful, brighter, a place in which I and many others feel welcome. For we have been touched by the hand of a saviour, by the light of a smile that never fails to warm. On behalf of all of us- and for myself most of all- I thank you for that. When all else fails, we still have trust in you. For we believe in you during all the times you do not believe in yourself. You shall be blessed and only blessed, for you live your life for the sake of truth, and strive for God in your every action. It is difficult to be extraordinary- but you handle it with aplomb. Your eyes are those that can see into many different people, from many different backgrounds and many different worlds. But what is more important, you can identify the commonality between these people, and in this way, bring them together, make them closer, create the world as it should have been made, a world of loving-kindness where you fulfill the function of seer in order to give back.
The empathic doctor whose only creed is loving-kindness- yes, this is Moshe, and I am proud to be his friend.
By this I mean purity of the soul, purity of his search for truth, purity in the way that he strives after his God and his religion, the way in which he second guesses himself and tries to ensure that everything he does is for the right and the good. Moshe is not the sort to take, but rather to give. He has had an absolutely beautiful journey, and the process has taken its toll on him. But Moshe exists in the here and now to give, to illuminate, to shed light upon others and to redeem them from the suffering that looms ahead. Moshe exists to be a saviour.
It is in this way that the Moshe I know in many ways reminds me of the Moshe in the Bible. Unassuming, humble and truly modest, what is most important is the quest he has had, the fight for the truth while at the same time retaining his tolerance and appreciation for all others. Moshe grew up in a black-and-white world, a world where ideas were clearly delineated and fell into camps of true and false. Growing up under the auspices of such a world, where all was regulated and understood, he experienced much that was beautiful. Moshe learned to serve God with a passion that he still retains, to pray before him and learn in a service that took all his mental acuity and caused him to smoulder with caring. The way in which he relates to God, the meaning behind his very religion, is something that has been taught and modeled for him by people whom he respects, despite the fact that he has chosen to live a lifestyle that deviates from theirs.
Moshe is courageous in that he had the ability to stand firm, to work it through and choose the philosophy which he believes is true, the one by which he will lead his life. But what is far more beautiful about Moshe is his caring and reverence for those whom he still honors and respects, for those who have been important and influential in his life. There are many who believe that they owe their parents nothing, they owe those who have helped to form and transform them nothing, so long as they themselves are happy. This pursuit of happiness is ultimately doomed to failure, for it is a pursuit that does not take into account others, that does not demonstrate to them how integral and important they have been in the process, in the very journey that has made them the person that they are today. But Moshe takes all that into account. And in this way, Moshe reminds me of the Moses in the Bible, the one who was forbidden to hit the sand or the water due to the concept of gratitude, for it was the sand and water that had saved his life even as a child.
Moshe practices gratitude in a way that puts others to shame. He is very aware of the different influences upon his life, and the different worlds that have created him. Born in what I shall loosely term the Haredi world, Moshe has steadily moved into more of the Modern Orthodox realm. But in reality, he has that rare power and ability to walk both worlds. One would initially think this a blessing, but in truth it is more of a curse. Part of both camps, able to see both sides, Moshe does not want to betray either one- he does not wish to hurt those he loves, but at the same time he does not wish to give up his ideals. And so he walks the tightrope, and prays he does not fall.
There is so much that goes into the making of a person, so much that transforms and creates him. There are the worlds in which he lives, the ideas to which he is exposed, his family life and structure, and what is perhaps most important, the others who touch his life. Moshe has taken everything he can from his meetings with different people, always striving to see what is unique in that particular individual and learn from them, perhaps wishing to possess the quality that comes so naturally to them. He has done his best to see all that is cheerful in the world, in the hopes that he might cheer another person when they are down. The very profession that he has chosen, that of medicine, allows him to be a saviour in yet another form. There are different kinds of doctors- those who know what it means to be human, and those who have hardened, and no longer see their patients as people with lives and backstories, only as subjects. Moshe is the sort who sees his patients as human, and whom I believe always well. He has an exquisite ability to feel pain and to feel compassion. And it is this, perhaps more than anything, that allows him the unique insight into the lives of others that causes him the pain which has created him.
What can one do if one is Moshe? Here he is, watching the world, observing it, allowing it to touch him and affect him. The world is not a disconnected entity but part of him, part of what causes him to live and breathe, to make him move, to cause him to feel. The sun rises and Moshe feels joy- the touch of nature in the world, the greenery, the summer day with its lazy breeze- all this invigorates Moshe, allowing him access to part of the beauty that exists in our world. And yet, all this is forgotten when Moshe is at work and sees a patient who is being eaten alive by cancer- a sight so awful that he will almost cry. And this is because Moshe has not forgotten what it means to be human, but chooses to keep hold of it, chooses to remind himself that every person he sees is a man, a man to be respected, understood and to whom one must listen, a man who is an exquisite creation of God's. It would be easy for Moshe to accustom himself to the dead- to treat the cadavers as simple subjects, to make callous jokes about them. But Moshe forbids himself this luxury, because he prefers to feel the pain of what it means to be human.
Much of life is lived in pain, for pain is transformative, and it creates people. Moshe has had his share of pain. How could it be otherwise? Loving his parents and his family, he nevertheless chose to pursue his dream and his calling, living by a set of ideals which are more true for him. At the same time, how could this not feel like a betrayal? And how could it be possible for him of all people to perpetrate this upon someone else, to cause another to suffer, to cause them any unhappiness? It has not been easy for him. But Moshe is not the sort to focus upon the difficulty caused him- on the contrary, it is the pain he believes he has caused others which occupies his mind. Moshe would never desire to cause anyone he loves any kind of hurt; it is the one thought that wounds him. He has never desired to be and never would want to take pleasure in another's pain, even to do something self-serving, where he will benefit at the expense of another.
Moshe gives, and he gives whole-heartedly. I personally know of people whom Moshe has driven to their destination and back, all with a smile, without the faintest touch of resentment or the least desire to receive something in return. I know of times where Moshe has made time he did not have, created an opportunity to listen to someone despite the fact that it required rearranging his schedule. I know of his humility, his sweetness, his caring, his thoughtfulness. I know how refined and pure a soul he has, of the ways in which he has struggled in order to retain that purity. And I know, too, that he has had his own descent into darkness, and he has also had the wherewithal to withstand it, and to look past its seductive lure.
To be a doctor requires one to understand pain, to understand human suffering. If you do not understand, how can you serve the needs of others? How will you stand before your patients and see them for who they are, despite the way in which they might behave, despite the testiness, anger or irritation they might exhibit? For Moshe, this will not be a problem. For Moshe is an empath, a man who truly feels for others in pain. He feels so deeply that at times he must not show it, lest he break. These are the times when he must take refuge in something else, anything else, so as to escape from his own mind and his thoughts, the sadness that holds him captive.
It is difficult to be extraordinary. It is not a task that is assigned to everyone, nor a burden that is placed on everyone. Not everyone has the capacity to tolerate that much confusion, the mental indecision and the ultimate realization that one must fight through everything important, create a mentality and worldview that is binding, after thinking and rethinking to ensure one has not made mistakes. Not everyone has the ability to care so much for those whom they have, in the eyes of others, abandoned due to their choices. Not everyone walks around shouldering the burdens of others, and not everyone makes it his life's work to give to others, to give to them in every way possible, through every action, at every moment. But there could be no more fitting profession for Moshe than that of physician. Because there is no man more suited to give, to serve his people and his God in this way, to cure the ailments which torture him, to bring a little joy into a world which has its share of darkness. Moshe was born to be extraordinary, and it is a task which marks him, creates him as someone separate, someone special, someone different, someone chosen. It is never easy to be chosen.
But there are some who have no choice.
Moshe, the path you walk is difficult, and if there could have been another way, another way in truth, that you would honestly feel to be true, you would have taken it. But you can only walk the road that you see as true, and do your utmost while on that path, to dispense kindness to all, to teach as many as you can, to give in every way possible, to cure to fulfill, not only the oath you have sworn, but the deep need within yourself to do so. You are one who must make the world a better place tangibly, so as to give himself purpose and meaning. You exist for this.
And due to your existence, the world has been made more beautiful, brighter, a place in which I and many others feel welcome. For we have been touched by the hand of a saviour, by the light of a smile that never fails to warm. On behalf of all of us- and for myself most of all- I thank you for that. When all else fails, we still have trust in you. For we believe in you during all the times you do not believe in yourself. You shall be blessed and only blessed, for you live your life for the sake of truth, and strive for God in your every action. It is difficult to be extraordinary- but you handle it with aplomb. Your eyes are those that can see into many different people, from many different backgrounds and many different worlds. But what is more important, you can identify the commonality between these people, and in this way, bring them together, make them closer, create the world as it should have been made, a world of loving-kindness where you fulfill the function of seer in order to give back.
The empathic doctor whose only creed is loving-kindness- yes, this is Moshe, and I am proud to be his friend.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
An Introduction to Haredi Philosophy Part 1
With the utmost thanks to Jordan, who is a beautiful person and a fantastic teacher.
~
The difficulty with being a Modern Orthodox Jew attempting to understand the Haredi community lies in our mostly knowing its negatives. When one thinks of the Haredi community, one generally thinks of extremism. The anecdotes that come to mind revolve around the Tznius Police in Israel, a focus upon obedience and guilt-tripping, all that which is distasteful or forced upon constituents who either submit to this brainwashing or abhor it. We cannot understand the allure of an insular community, have difficulty comprehending the concept of people who choose to be isolated and live outside of the tenets of our secular world, and this is all aside from the fact that if we choose to be honest, it is quite possible that we are embarrassed by people who make themselves so distinctly different, wearing their black and white garb proudly, without the faintest desire to fit in or otherwise agree with the customs of the times.
Such an approach fails to take in the absolute beauty of the Haredi lifestyle, all that which is pure in it, much of which it would be important for those who refer to themselves as Modern Orthodox to implement within their own lives. This is not deliberate; it is simply that our exposure to Haredi people is so limited and seems so uncultured in contrast to our own lifestyles that we cannot comprehend the beauty within the culture until it is shown to us so vividly that we no longer have the ability to deny it.
The first point is that ideally there should be no labels. Ideally, there ought to be no distinction between the Haredi and Modern Orthodox Jew, the only question there ought to be is whether or not one is a practicing Jew. There is right and wrong, and this is defined by the Torah, the guide which we claim to follow. If this is so, the only question that remains to us is whether we do right or wrong, whether we choose to obey or disobey the law. But with the understanding that the society we currently live in greedily clutches at labels, we shall assume there is a difference, and attempt to dissect it.
Perhaps the greatest distinction between the Haredi and Modern Orthodox philosophy appears with the idea of Torah u'Mada. Torah u'Mada suggests an equation, Torah and Science, by which we mean everything secular- secular studies and the like. We use the phrase without thinking about it; it has become a catchphrase, something easy, but what does it really mean? Does it mean to equate Torah and secular studies, and suggest that the same amount of value is to be found in both of them? Does it mean to suggest that secular studies are a form of Torah? Does it simply refer to the fact that one ought to be allowed to study secular studies alongside Torah? What in the world does the phrase mean?
It seems logical to begin at the beginning, in which case one refers to the Rav, the alleged founder of Modern Orthodoxy, for clarification. He states very clearly:
Well, there is a simple example of a play being performed on a Friday night. Simply due to the fact that one would have to act in this play on a Friday night (and use a microphone or otherwise break the rules of Shabbat), one would not be allowed to indulge in this secular endeavor. But of course, there are examples that are murkier than that, and delve into shades of grey rather than easy black and white. And this has to do with secular endeavor on a whole.
What exactly is a book like The Fountainhead to me? Before now, I would have said that it was a form of Torah, because Torah encompasses everything, which means it encompasses all secular studies as well, which leads me to the idea that everything true and beautiful would be found within it, including the subject matter of The Fountainhead. Yet, when I come down to it practically, am I going to live my life in accordance to the tenets of Objectivism as outlaid in The Fountainhead or in accordance to the Torah? Should these values conflict (and they do, perhaps most strongly in Ayn Rand's take on charity, which works within her black-and-white construct of a world, but would not work when applied to our society) then I must stick with the Torah values. This means that the Torah is my guiding principle when determining what kinds of secular endeavor are appropriate or accurate. In this way the easy phrase "Torah u'Mada" becomes meaningless. The phrase seems to equate the two, to place them on the same level. Yet even I as a Modern Orthodox Jew must acknowledge that in fact Torah is higher than Mada, Torah trumps secular endeavor because it is Torah that defines what in secular endeavor is accurate or pure. This suggests that on the simplest level, a Modern Orthodox Jew believes just as a Haredi Jew does, that there is a hierarchy, and Torah appears before secular studies do.
In that case, one must then wonder exactly what role secular studies fulfill. There are several options. One could argue that secular studies in and of themselves have intrinsic value due to their introduction of pretty concepts and ideas, which one can enjoy simply as entertainment (but need not apply to one's life.) Then again, one could also argue that secular studies enrich one's learning and approach to Torah, as I find is the case with me. There are many ideas I could not have thought up unless I had watched movies or read books first, for it is only due to reading those books that I was even allowed to comprehend such an idea. But this begs the question- someone like R' Aharon Kotler, who did not delve into secular studies- do I mean to suggest that such a person was lacking in his knowledge of Tanakh and Gemara? No, for shame! That cannot be. For does not the Torah contain everything, and would a person not be able to grasp everything contained within it? What I can suggest is that perhaps it depends on the person. Some people would be able to come up with such creative thoughts simply from reading the Torah itself, while others would only have such ideas suggested to them through outside means, such as reading English literature. But even then, one must wonder whether an entire philosophy can be based upon what is best for a particular person. This is all aside from the most basic fact that it may simply be better to be exposed to something secular so that one does not find the forbidden attractive and alluring at another point in one's life.
The point remains- there is a hierarchy here, and Torah trumps Mada. As the Rav makes clear, if there is a conflict between Torah and secular endeavor, Torah wins out.
This brings us to the matter of halakha. What is halakha? Halakha has been incredibly misrepresented. This is perhaps due to the way in which it has been taught to us in our elementary schools and high schools. Halakha is a subject, just as Machshava/ Hashkafa is, Chumash is, and Navi is. Halakha has been interpreted as being one part of Judaism, one facet of Judaism, but is not in and of itself Judaism. Nothing could be further from the truth. To be a practicing Jew is to keep halakha, to follow its tenets and its laws even when it makes demands on you that are absolutely horrifying to our ethically and rationally ordered minds. And this is what makes it so difficult to obey. We live in a Western society and for the most part we cannot help but be influenced by Western values. This allows us the illusion of thinking that something is morally or ethically right simply because it seems right to us. We are the final arbiter, the final judge, something is either logical or illogical to us. If something is distasteful, if we find something difficult, we do not hesitate to reinterpret halakha accordingly. Oh, some of us are less bold than others, and would not put it in such terms. But there is no doubt that that is what we are doing. We are recreating halakha to suit our needs, to suit the needs of the time, whether it be arguing that there ought to be women Rabbis, trying to come up with impossible loopholes in order to free agunot, or claiming that halakha on a whole is fluid rather than codexed, and that we have the right nowadays to take it further than it was hereto taken.
Why is it that we do this with halakha? What is the reason that we are not terrified, scared out of our wits to reinterpret it in this fashion? It is because many of us do not know people who truly live their lives in accordance to these principles, who function, live and breathe in accordance to halakha. To us, the concept is foreign. It is difficult for us to understand. We function as part of a society which promotes tolerance, the live-and-let-live approach. And practically, it is important that we do so. But it is similarly important that we realize that according to the tenets of the Torah, certain practices are permitted and others are not. My heart may bleed for homosexuals who wish to practice their homosexual behavior, but that does not mean that I can reinterpret this behavior as not being a sin simply because I do not want it to be so. The same goes with any other law, however it is derived. There is often (not always, but often) a distinction between the action and the person. One must have the ability to say that a person is not following halakha in a certain matter, but that does not in and of itself make them a less worthy person; one must be able to note the difference between right and wrong while still acting in a nonjudgmental fashion. And yes, this too is very difficult to do. But that does not mean that we must engage in apologetics in an attempt to allow for people to do what they want, simply because they want to do it. I too desire to do what I want, and sometimes I do. The difference is that most of the time I am very aware that I am simply doing what I want, rather than attempting to justify what I want and call it legitimate per halakhic practice.
Now comes the question of people choosing to live in an insular community. As a Modern Orthodox Jew, the first argument that comes to mind is one having to do with the strength of Judaism. If Judaism is a strong religion, shouldn't it be able to flourish and function in any society, no matter the deterrents or the opposition? And in that case, living in an insular community is a suggestion that Judaism can only function behind closed doors, an extremely weak form of the religion! As an idea, this sounds very appealing, does it not? But then there is the practical approach these people are taking. Practically speaking, who is going to be exposed to less ugliness in the Torah sense of the world, people living in this insular community or people living outside of it? Those of us who live outside of it are inured to various images, words and statements that would make those who live inside this community shudder. Can you imagine never having seen someone being mechalel Shabbat, or never having seen a billboard with a provocative picture of a woman? Can you imagine having the ability to shudder at such things, to see God's word defiled and stepped on by others, even by those who are not necessarily aware of what they do? Does it make you cry to see a non-religious Jew marry a non-Jew, or are you so used to it that you shrug your shoulders and continue about your day? There is a certain purity in being able to live a life that is insulated so that you might practice God's word in a community that truly values it, in a community where God's word is so much your life that to see anyone disobey it comes as a shock and something deeply hurtful for you.
Those who live outside such a community might instinctively express scorn for such an approach. Oh, it is not the real world, they will say. They will claim the real world is the world where God's word is trampled, where one becomes accustomed to its defilement and ill-treatment. But who says one must trade in one's purity for such a world? How does such an argument hold up?
This is not all. There is the institution of learning, of kollel. Now, let us grant to begin with that kollel is not for everyone, that indeed there are people who are not serious and who would not devote the proper amount of time or effort to study, and in that case are simply taking from the community's funds without giving back. But what is learning, truly? You have not seen learning until you have seen someone from the Haredi community learn. Learning is their life blood, something beautiful and true, something absolutely gorgeous, a song that flows through their veins and makes them live more truly, more beautifully, something which identifies them and makes them them. What is most important is the ease with which your Haredi scholar learns, the facility he has with texts and different ideas. He has mastered this at a young age, and for him the Torah truly is his lifeblood, something authentic, genuine and true, his master and his teacher, his beloved in a way that is incomprehensible to anyone unless they have either seen or experienced it. It is not the lackluster learning that many of us experience because we are forced into it, or even the increased intensity one accesses upon spending the year in Israel. It is learning as a deep and abiding pleasure; it is learning as a dance; it is learning as fire in the veins, which propels and seduces the one who studies the text.
And what of those who are not so smart? There is still the beauty in their commitment- they wake up in the morning, go to seder, begin preparing with their chavrusa and learn away. They have committed themselves and their time to their God. Do you realize the simple charm that lies in such a commitment? The ease with which they practice it? This is simply their life; they are truly humble; they take no excess pride in what they do; it is simply what they have been taught to do. To love God's law and to learn it each day, in a rhythmic sort of sway and dance. The fact that they do this so simply, so easily- that too is to be admired! That too is something beautiful.
This is a community which desires to live Torah, which has no tolerance for apologetics, for dancing around the truth of an issue. Something is wrong or right, muttar or assur, in accordance to the noted opinions of the scholars. Doing things in order to keep friends and avoid enemies is frowned upon, making certain claims because they are easier or we want them to be true is also frowned upon. So why do we have so much trouble submitting to halakha? It is that many of us lie to ourselves and refuse to see halakha as codified, preferring to see it as fluid, something still malleable, able to be created and changed. Or it is that we truly have had no role models who live their Judaism truly and genuinely, with respect for halakha in their every act, who are truly passionate about desiring to be pure, desiring to be bothered by things they see which are inappropriate or against God's law. But most of all it is that we want what we want- we want God to be compassionate on our terms; I want God's law to make sense to me- for it to make sense for me to kill an Amalekite, for him to have actually harmed me before I do so- and this is not a luxury I am granted. And for that, for that, I struggle so, and I cannot surrender- unless I change something in myself, unless I humble myself abjectly and utterly, which is something I must strive to reach, and have not yet reached.
Every community has its problems, and it is certain that one could point out problems in the Haredi sector just as one could point them out in the Modern Orthodox sector, the Centrist sector, the Reform or Conservative sectors, and so on and so forth. But it is necessary to understand the beauty in such a lifestyle, genuinely and authentically lived, to realize what passion fires the veins of its constituents, to see the grandeur of such an approach to one's God and one's religion, the respect with which its members hold its Rabbis and scholars. There is something so beautiful in this. God, it is so beautiful! I am envious, yes, very envious, of the ability they have to integrate Judaism and halakha, to see those two things as one and the same rather than seeing one as a part of the other. God grant that I should see it, too, and be able to humble myself before You as I would like! God grant me strength.
~
The difficulty with being a Modern Orthodox Jew attempting to understand the Haredi community lies in our mostly knowing its negatives. When one thinks of the Haredi community, one generally thinks of extremism. The anecdotes that come to mind revolve around the Tznius Police in Israel, a focus upon obedience and guilt-tripping, all that which is distasteful or forced upon constituents who either submit to this brainwashing or abhor it. We cannot understand the allure of an insular community, have difficulty comprehending the concept of people who choose to be isolated and live outside of the tenets of our secular world, and this is all aside from the fact that if we choose to be honest, it is quite possible that we are embarrassed by people who make themselves so distinctly different, wearing their black and white garb proudly, without the faintest desire to fit in or otherwise agree with the customs of the times.
Such an approach fails to take in the absolute beauty of the Haredi lifestyle, all that which is pure in it, much of which it would be important for those who refer to themselves as Modern Orthodox to implement within their own lives. This is not deliberate; it is simply that our exposure to Haredi people is so limited and seems so uncultured in contrast to our own lifestyles that we cannot comprehend the beauty within the culture until it is shown to us so vividly that we no longer have the ability to deny it.
The first point is that ideally there should be no labels. Ideally, there ought to be no distinction between the Haredi and Modern Orthodox Jew, the only question there ought to be is whether or not one is a practicing Jew. There is right and wrong, and this is defined by the Torah, the guide which we claim to follow. If this is so, the only question that remains to us is whether we do right or wrong, whether we choose to obey or disobey the law. But with the understanding that the society we currently live in greedily clutches at labels, we shall assume there is a difference, and attempt to dissect it.
Perhaps the greatest distinction between the Haredi and Modern Orthodox philosophy appears with the idea of Torah u'Mada. Torah u'Mada suggests an equation, Torah and Science, by which we mean everything secular- secular studies and the like. We use the phrase without thinking about it; it has become a catchphrase, something easy, but what does it really mean? Does it mean to equate Torah and secular studies, and suggest that the same amount of value is to be found in both of them? Does it mean to suggest that secular studies are a form of Torah? Does it simply refer to the fact that one ought to be allowed to study secular studies alongside Torah? What in the world does the phrase mean?
It seems logical to begin at the beginning, in which case one refers to the Rav, the alleged founder of Modern Orthodoxy, for clarification. He states very clearly:
- I have heard criticisms against the Yeshiva that we have not yet achieved the proper synthesis between Torah study and secular endeavor; between fear of God and worldliness. We have not achieved what the German Orthodox Jews called "Torah with derekh eretz [worldly occupation"] [Avot2:2]. I claim that the true greatness of the Yeshiva is that it does not have this synthesis. The truth is that there is no real synthesis in the world. If there is a contradiction between Torah and secular endeavor, then synthesis is not possible. If there is a thesis and an anti-thesis, then no synthesis is possible. In general, a synthesis is very superficial. It is apologetic, it imitates others and the individual loses his uniqueness. In synthesis, no one succeeds. Even our great teacher Rabbi Moses ben Maimon [Maimonides] did not succeed in his attempts at synthesis. The greatness of the Yeshiva is that it is a real Yeshiva and on thesecond level a proper academic institution. Both divisions function without synthesis and compromise.
My students go from my shiur on the first floor of the Yeshiva building to their college classes on the third floor. In my class, they study in depth such talmudic topics as whether the signatures of the witnesses or the witnessing of the actual delivery make the get [divorce document] effective [Gittin 23a], or whether going over the writing on a get document can validate the get [Gittin 20a]. Then they go upstairs to their college classes, where they study theories in mathematics and physics. I am proud when my student is both a Torah scholar and a good college student. If there were a synthesis, both achievements would be weakened!
In this concept, our Yeshiva is unique. It is not like other yeshivot. [...] The Catholics also have religious universities. I do not like to imitate others! We have a Yeshiva, and because the times demand it, we also have a university. These two divisions will not be synthesized. They will remain two institutions. It may be like a man with two heads, but it is better to have two heads than not to have one. [Laughter]
The uniqueness of the Yeshiva is another reason why I am loyal to this institution. It is a reflection of my own thinking and commitment. (pages 229-231)
~The World of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, Volume 2, page 229.
Well, there is a simple example of a play being performed on a Friday night. Simply due to the fact that one would have to act in this play on a Friday night (and use a microphone or otherwise break the rules of Shabbat), one would not be allowed to indulge in this secular endeavor. But of course, there are examples that are murkier than that, and delve into shades of grey rather than easy black and white. And this has to do with secular endeavor on a whole.
What exactly is a book like The Fountainhead to me? Before now, I would have said that it was a form of Torah, because Torah encompasses everything, which means it encompasses all secular studies as well, which leads me to the idea that everything true and beautiful would be found within it, including the subject matter of The Fountainhead. Yet, when I come down to it practically, am I going to live my life in accordance to the tenets of Objectivism as outlaid in The Fountainhead or in accordance to the Torah? Should these values conflict (and they do, perhaps most strongly in Ayn Rand's take on charity, which works within her black-and-white construct of a world, but would not work when applied to our society) then I must stick with the Torah values. This means that the Torah is my guiding principle when determining what kinds of secular endeavor are appropriate or accurate. In this way the easy phrase "Torah u'Mada" becomes meaningless. The phrase seems to equate the two, to place them on the same level. Yet even I as a Modern Orthodox Jew must acknowledge that in fact Torah is higher than Mada, Torah trumps secular endeavor because it is Torah that defines what in secular endeavor is accurate or pure. This suggests that on the simplest level, a Modern Orthodox Jew believes just as a Haredi Jew does, that there is a hierarchy, and Torah appears before secular studies do.
In that case, one must then wonder exactly what role secular studies fulfill. There are several options. One could argue that secular studies in and of themselves have intrinsic value due to their introduction of pretty concepts and ideas, which one can enjoy simply as entertainment (but need not apply to one's life.) Then again, one could also argue that secular studies enrich one's learning and approach to Torah, as I find is the case with me. There are many ideas I could not have thought up unless I had watched movies or read books first, for it is only due to reading those books that I was even allowed to comprehend such an idea. But this begs the question- someone like R' Aharon Kotler, who did not delve into secular studies- do I mean to suggest that such a person was lacking in his knowledge of Tanakh and Gemara? No, for shame! That cannot be. For does not the Torah contain everything, and would a person not be able to grasp everything contained within it? What I can suggest is that perhaps it depends on the person. Some people would be able to come up with such creative thoughts simply from reading the Torah itself, while others would only have such ideas suggested to them through outside means, such as reading English literature. But even then, one must wonder whether an entire philosophy can be based upon what is best for a particular person. This is all aside from the most basic fact that it may simply be better to be exposed to something secular so that one does not find the forbidden attractive and alluring at another point in one's life.
The point remains- there is a hierarchy here, and Torah trumps Mada. As the Rav makes clear, if there is a conflict between Torah and secular endeavor, Torah wins out.
This brings us to the matter of halakha. What is halakha? Halakha has been incredibly misrepresented. This is perhaps due to the way in which it has been taught to us in our elementary schools and high schools. Halakha is a subject, just as Machshava/ Hashkafa is, Chumash is, and Navi is. Halakha has been interpreted as being one part of Judaism, one facet of Judaism, but is not in and of itself Judaism. Nothing could be further from the truth. To be a practicing Jew is to keep halakha, to follow its tenets and its laws even when it makes demands on you that are absolutely horrifying to our ethically and rationally ordered minds. And this is what makes it so difficult to obey. We live in a Western society and for the most part we cannot help but be influenced by Western values. This allows us the illusion of thinking that something is morally or ethically right simply because it seems right to us. We are the final arbiter, the final judge, something is either logical or illogical to us. If something is distasteful, if we find something difficult, we do not hesitate to reinterpret halakha accordingly. Oh, some of us are less bold than others, and would not put it in such terms. But there is no doubt that that is what we are doing. We are recreating halakha to suit our needs, to suit the needs of the time, whether it be arguing that there ought to be women Rabbis, trying to come up with impossible loopholes in order to free agunot, or claiming that halakha on a whole is fluid rather than codexed, and that we have the right nowadays to take it further than it was hereto taken.
Why is it that we do this with halakha? What is the reason that we are not terrified, scared out of our wits to reinterpret it in this fashion? It is because many of us do not know people who truly live their lives in accordance to these principles, who function, live and breathe in accordance to halakha. To us, the concept is foreign. It is difficult for us to understand. We function as part of a society which promotes tolerance, the live-and-let-live approach. And practically, it is important that we do so. But it is similarly important that we realize that according to the tenets of the Torah, certain practices are permitted and others are not. My heart may bleed for homosexuals who wish to practice their homosexual behavior, but that does not mean that I can reinterpret this behavior as not being a sin simply because I do not want it to be so. The same goes with any other law, however it is derived. There is often (not always, but often) a distinction between the action and the person. One must have the ability to say that a person is not following halakha in a certain matter, but that does not in and of itself make them a less worthy person; one must be able to note the difference between right and wrong while still acting in a nonjudgmental fashion. And yes, this too is very difficult to do. But that does not mean that we must engage in apologetics in an attempt to allow for people to do what they want, simply because they want to do it. I too desire to do what I want, and sometimes I do. The difference is that most of the time I am very aware that I am simply doing what I want, rather than attempting to justify what I want and call it legitimate per halakhic practice.
Now comes the question of people choosing to live in an insular community. As a Modern Orthodox Jew, the first argument that comes to mind is one having to do with the strength of Judaism. If Judaism is a strong religion, shouldn't it be able to flourish and function in any society, no matter the deterrents or the opposition? And in that case, living in an insular community is a suggestion that Judaism can only function behind closed doors, an extremely weak form of the religion! As an idea, this sounds very appealing, does it not? But then there is the practical approach these people are taking. Practically speaking, who is going to be exposed to less ugliness in the Torah sense of the world, people living in this insular community or people living outside of it? Those of us who live outside of it are inured to various images, words and statements that would make those who live inside this community shudder. Can you imagine never having seen someone being mechalel Shabbat, or never having seen a billboard with a provocative picture of a woman? Can you imagine having the ability to shudder at such things, to see God's word defiled and stepped on by others, even by those who are not necessarily aware of what they do? Does it make you cry to see a non-religious Jew marry a non-Jew, or are you so used to it that you shrug your shoulders and continue about your day? There is a certain purity in being able to live a life that is insulated so that you might practice God's word in a community that truly values it, in a community where God's word is so much your life that to see anyone disobey it comes as a shock and something deeply hurtful for you.
Those who live outside such a community might instinctively express scorn for such an approach. Oh, it is not the real world, they will say. They will claim the real world is the world where God's word is trampled, where one becomes accustomed to its defilement and ill-treatment. But who says one must trade in one's purity for such a world? How does such an argument hold up?
This is not all. There is the institution of learning, of kollel. Now, let us grant to begin with that kollel is not for everyone, that indeed there are people who are not serious and who would not devote the proper amount of time or effort to study, and in that case are simply taking from the community's funds without giving back. But what is learning, truly? You have not seen learning until you have seen someone from the Haredi community learn. Learning is their life blood, something beautiful and true, something absolutely gorgeous, a song that flows through their veins and makes them live more truly, more beautifully, something which identifies them and makes them them. What is most important is the ease with which your Haredi scholar learns, the facility he has with texts and different ideas. He has mastered this at a young age, and for him the Torah truly is his lifeblood, something authentic, genuine and true, his master and his teacher, his beloved in a way that is incomprehensible to anyone unless they have either seen or experienced it. It is not the lackluster learning that many of us experience because we are forced into it, or even the increased intensity one accesses upon spending the year in Israel. It is learning as a deep and abiding pleasure; it is learning as a dance; it is learning as fire in the veins, which propels and seduces the one who studies the text.
And what of those who are not so smart? There is still the beauty in their commitment- they wake up in the morning, go to seder, begin preparing with their chavrusa and learn away. They have committed themselves and their time to their God. Do you realize the simple charm that lies in such a commitment? The ease with which they practice it? This is simply their life; they are truly humble; they take no excess pride in what they do; it is simply what they have been taught to do. To love God's law and to learn it each day, in a rhythmic sort of sway and dance. The fact that they do this so simply, so easily- that too is to be admired! That too is something beautiful.
This is a community which desires to live Torah, which has no tolerance for apologetics, for dancing around the truth of an issue. Something is wrong or right, muttar or assur, in accordance to the noted opinions of the scholars. Doing things in order to keep friends and avoid enemies is frowned upon, making certain claims because they are easier or we want them to be true is also frowned upon. So why do we have so much trouble submitting to halakha? It is that many of us lie to ourselves and refuse to see halakha as codified, preferring to see it as fluid, something still malleable, able to be created and changed. Or it is that we truly have had no role models who live their Judaism truly and genuinely, with respect for halakha in their every act, who are truly passionate about desiring to be pure, desiring to be bothered by things they see which are inappropriate or against God's law. But most of all it is that we want what we want- we want God to be compassionate on our terms; I want God's law to make sense to me- for it to make sense for me to kill an Amalekite, for him to have actually harmed me before I do so- and this is not a luxury I am granted. And for that, for that, I struggle so, and I cannot surrender- unless I change something in myself, unless I humble myself abjectly and utterly, which is something I must strive to reach, and have not yet reached.
Every community has its problems, and it is certain that one could point out problems in the Haredi sector just as one could point them out in the Modern Orthodox sector, the Centrist sector, the Reform or Conservative sectors, and so on and so forth. But it is necessary to understand the beauty in such a lifestyle, genuinely and authentically lived, to realize what passion fires the veins of its constituents, to see the grandeur of such an approach to one's God and one's religion, the respect with which its members hold its Rabbis and scholars. There is something so beautiful in this. God, it is so beautiful! I am envious, yes, very envious, of the ability they have to integrate Judaism and halakha, to see those two things as one and the same rather than seeing one as a part of the other. God grant that I should see it, too, and be able to humble myself before You as I would like! God grant me strength.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Jewish Olympians 2008
I find it odd that various and sundry Jewish leaders have told Jewish Olympians/ athletes to boycott the 2008 Summer Olympics and yet it seems humanly impossible to find a list of Jewishly affiliated Olympic athletes anywhere.
In frustration, I therefore turn to you, o' bloggers. Other than Israeli Olympians, which American/ English/ French/ other Olympic-bound athletes identify themselves as Jewish? If you could direct me to a list or even simply post names in the comment thread, that would be much appreciated.
In frustration, I therefore turn to you, o' bloggers. Other than Israeli Olympians, which American/ English/ French/ other Olympic-bound athletes identify themselves as Jewish? If you could direct me to a list or even simply post names in the comment thread, that would be much appreciated.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Fairytales and Tanakh (Yiftach)
Taran pointed out that the haftorah to Parshat Chukas, which is Judges 11:1-33 is echoed in the Brothers Grimm fairytale "The King of the Golden Mountain:"
- There was once a merchant who had two children, a boy and a girl. They were both small and not old enough to run about. He had also two richly laden ships at sea, and just as he was expecting to make a great deal of money by the merchandise, news came that they had both been lost. So now instead of being a rich man he was quite poor, and had nothing left but one field near the town.
To turn his thoughts from his misfortune, he went out into this field. And as he was walking up and down, a little black mannikin suddenly appeared before him and asked why he was so sad.
The merchant said, "I would tell you at once if you could help me."
"Who knows?" answered the little mannikin. "Perhaps I could help you."
Then the merchant told him that all his wealth had been lost in a wreck, and that now he had nothing left but this field.
"Don't worry yourself," said the mannikin. "If you will promise to bring me in twelve years' time the first thing which rubs against your legs when you go home, you shall have as much gold as you want."
The merchant thought, "What could it be but my dog?" He never thought of his boy, but said yes, and gave the mannikin his bond signed and sealed and went home.
When he reached the house his little son, delighted to hold on to the benches and totter towards his father, seized him by the leg to steady himself.
The merchant was horror-stricken, for his vow came into his head, and now he knew what he had promised to give away.
Monday, June 30, 2008
everybody loves my eyeshadow
no fewer than 5 of my coworkers, including those who are male and female and ranging from people my age to those in their thirties or forties, complimented me both on my eyeshadow and my coordinated outfit today.
clearly, pink glittery eyeliner is the way to go!
emotional 'Get Out of Jail' card
I read a fascinating post by Treppenwitz in which he notes that his saving 82 people at one point in time is his " emotional 'Get Out Of Jail' card for some of the darkest moments of my life. So in a sense, one might say that they saved me too."
What is your Get Out of Jail card? What good deed have you done which never fails to uplift you, no matter how sad you are? This may or may not coincide with being your proudest moment. Alternatively, what good quality or character trait do you have which enables you to get out of jail?
What is your Get Out of Jail card? What good deed have you done which never fails to uplift you, no matter how sad you are? This may or may not coincide with being your proudest moment. Alternatively, what good quality or character trait do you have which enables you to get out of jail?
a description of darkness
darkness is
a deep desire to make pain tangible, so that like a flash of light on the water it is no longer elusive, rather one has a portal into that world whenever one so desires
an anger so deep that it turns on oneself as the most constructive object of one's own hatred, an anger that uses oneself as its canvas for its artistry, so that one's poetic moments are inflicted on the self through an array of means
a knowledge that the ability to hurt must be destructively linked to the way in which that hurt is made more vivid and more real, forced into color, for in that color lies the immediacy of understanding and its passion revealed
a tunnel so black that one cannot get out of it, for there is no light, only people to catch you and hold you close so that, like a child, you take their hand and follow. except that requires the trust of a child, so one can only do that if one is equipped to trust, and that too takes time
but happily, i have retained the innocence of a child and can be led out of the tunnel by following cast away balloon strings tied into a rope, thin enough for me to grasp, colorful enough for me to focus upon, leading me away and onward to pretty hills and different places
with the understanding that the darkness is not forgotten and is actually my friend; the tunnel is my playmate and i may walk back in whenever i so choose
tunnel to another world; pluto sits in silence
a deep desire to make pain tangible, so that like a flash of light on the water it is no longer elusive, rather one has a portal into that world whenever one so desires
an anger so deep that it turns on oneself as the most constructive object of one's own hatred, an anger that uses oneself as its canvas for its artistry, so that one's poetic moments are inflicted on the self through an array of means
a knowledge that the ability to hurt must be destructively linked to the way in which that hurt is made more vivid and more real, forced into color, for in that color lies the immediacy of understanding and its passion revealed
a tunnel so black that one cannot get out of it, for there is no light, only people to catch you and hold you close so that, like a child, you take their hand and follow. except that requires the trust of a child, so one can only do that if one is equipped to trust, and that too takes time
but happily, i have retained the innocence of a child and can be led out of the tunnel by following cast away balloon strings tied into a rope, thin enough for me to grasp, colorful enough for me to focus upon, leading me away and onward to pretty hills and different places
with the understanding that the darkness is not forgotten and is actually my friend; the tunnel is my playmate and i may walk back in whenever i so choose
tunnel to another world; pluto sits in silence
caring
Something nice that everyone should consider doing at one point in their lives, and preferably today, as all it takes is one email: Express to your friends why you care for them, not just that you do. The assumption that they know why is wrong. People rarely know why; they judge based on your actions instead. So tell them what it is you see in them, because those are the words that are going to buoy them up later- when they need it.
And on that note, thanks to YCubed, Muffins, Jordan, Lightman, Simcha, Ibn Avraham and Moshe, who all helped me deal of late. You guys are amazing and you already know it, so we're good on that score.
And on that note, thanks to YCubed, Muffins, Jordan, Lightman, Simcha, Ibn Avraham and Moshe, who all helped me deal of late. You guys are amazing and you already know it, so we're good on that score.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
fiery darkness
welcome to the darkness.
there is a world there, beyond the world we know, and it is filled with fire. dripping flame that is placed together like a goldsmith's necklace, intricate and interlocking, a beautiful and fantastical image, replete with the beauty that one would find in charms, animals with horns or small hooves or dazzling feet, and the fire shows up against the darkness.
and one looks at the fire and is amazed by its grandeur, the majesty and awe with which it fills the world. one looks at the fire and sees his face reflected in the fire, crowned with thorns, and one sees that the thorns are only partially consumed, for it is the fire of the burning bush which is reflected in one's very face- the light that one throws off from one's skin, the light that consumes but does not consume.
it is this that terrifies people, this light that has the aura and the radiance of that which burns but does not burn.
but it is not the fire that truly consumes people; it is the darkness that lies beyond it. there, for ages and ages, in an unquenchable mass of beautiful darkness, unlit by constellation or desire, there exists a velvet darkness such as could not be imagined, a darkness that seduces, a darkness into which one walks and from which one cannot emerge.
i have never been acquainted with this darkness
until now.
there is a world there, beyond the world we know, and it is filled with fire. dripping flame that is placed together like a goldsmith's necklace, intricate and interlocking, a beautiful and fantastical image, replete with the beauty that one would find in charms, animals with horns or small hooves or dazzling feet, and the fire shows up against the darkness.
and one looks at the fire and is amazed by its grandeur, the majesty and awe with which it fills the world. one looks at the fire and sees his face reflected in the fire, crowned with thorns, and one sees that the thorns are only partially consumed, for it is the fire of the burning bush which is reflected in one's very face- the light that one throws off from one's skin, the light that consumes but does not consume.
it is this that terrifies people, this light that has the aura and the radiance of that which burns but does not burn.
but it is not the fire that truly consumes people; it is the darkness that lies beyond it. there, for ages and ages, in an unquenchable mass of beautiful darkness, unlit by constellation or desire, there exists a velvet darkness such as could not be imagined, a darkness that seduces, a darkness into which one walks and from which one cannot emerge.
i have never been acquainted with this darkness
until now.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Graduation
Well what's been going through my mind is "Welcome to your graduation." The distinction being, I don't think that graduations work quite the way you are told they do in high school. That's not a graduation, simply working your way up through a couple of grades. Graduations happen at the stunningly beautiful or painful moments in your life; graduations happen because of you, because of what you are, not because of what you want or because you've received a meaningless piece of paper. And what I also come to realize is that God, I have no control whatsoever. And how I wish I did! And how I've fought with God to get that control, as though if I had it I would be all right. If I had the ability to control my life, my feelings, my thoughts, anything and everything that I am I would somehow be all right. But that is not what this is about. It's not the truth. God, you've been teaching me always to surrender and you know I fight you every single day, every single step of the way. But the graduations come when you win. When I acknowledge that you are mightier than I (O God of the whirlwind!) and you rule the world. And that I can't fight it, God; I can't make You do it the way I want You to, and what's more, I understand why. It's because I can't learn that way, because I'm made of such stubborn stuff that you've got to beat it into me; you've got to pound me and make me learn by making me live it. But you understand why I don't volunteer for this opportunity, just wake up in the morning happily and say, hey God, where's the Agiel today, and can I wield it instead of you? Because I'm not Richard Rahl and I don't feel sad for Denna.
All right, I admit it. I can't control anything. You happy now? You've got what you wanted? No, I don't think you have. You've got me to admit I haven't got the power, but that doesn't mean you want me unhappy. I know what you're up to. You're going to put me through hell before I find what is true, what is happy, what I am meant for. And God, I admit it to you freely; I am scared. I am scared; I don't want this, don't want the pain, don't want the ups and downs and pitfalls and free-falling. I don't want it but I understand it, because You've done it enough times to me that I can understand it; I freaking get it. I get You. I know what you're doing here; I know that I need to learn this stuff but that doesn't mean I have to want to. I think You can understand that, yes? So I'm still fighting You, and You know it, but at the same time I am aware of what you want of me, which is to live, to experience, to suffer through and figure it out as I go along. And I'll give You my best damn shot of doing it, but that means I am going to fight with you sometimes, and be angry at you other times. Which is what I'm being right now, difficult. Yes, I am a difficult child, and you know that because I'm your child. I get it from you. My inheritance, made in your image, is to be just as difficult and stubborn as you could possibly want me to be. You wouldn't take as much pride in being able to break me otherwise, would you?
That's the way this works. You break me into shards so as to humble me completely so that I piece myself back together, stronger than before. Something new, something beautiful. And I exist like that for a little while before you break me again, deeper and more painful than last time. There are so many stages to this; I see them. But God, you've got to forgive me for being scared. Must it hurt so much always? I am going to do it; I can walk through fire if You make me, but the most difficult thing is to make it my choice. To make me realize this is the way it's going to be, these are the rules of the game, and then make me operate off of them. So okay, God, let's put it this way. I'll do this, because I have to, but I have the right to be scared and unhappy and in all ways not okay with it. Because it's difficult to want to learn this way. This is not something you can want. This is Evey in "V for Vendetta" being tortured by V without knowing it, but realizing in the end that it's to make her stronger and that God is in the rain. That's the game you are playing with me. I don't know it's torture because it is so pleasurable for a time, and you even allow me to think it can happen. But then it turns out you were just playing. Trickster God! And I admire you for it. I admire You even for Your trickery...
God, do you mind that this is how I pray to You? A public prayer in order to announce your strength and to tell you I do appropriate homage to You. That I love you, you know, that at times I hate you, you also know. That I realize what you are doing afterwards, but never at the time, you know most of all. I love my murderer, Heathcliff says; at times it is very apt! I love my God; I love my murderer. That's what Holocaust survivors have, that kind of awareness of who and what you are. There are some of them who can never forgive You for what they learned about themselves because of You. That's what kills us, you know, when we are less than what we are. Nothing to do with the physical pain. Only with our expectations of ourselves. God, do you take pleasure in making me fall? I think you do it only to teach me it is possible. And more than that, what is possible. There is so much I would not know except you made me fall.
So stubborn a student and so demanding a teacher! Do you expect me to be all smiles? No, no, I know you don't expect it. But what the hell is your plan for me? Why do I need all this; what is it for? If only I could know what it was for, it would be easier to bear. But I understand- Evey couldn't know her role till she had braved death for it. And it's the same thing. I will not understand until I need to. And in the meantime, you are "subtle but not malicious" as you dance through my life. A whirlwind? No, not a whirlwind. A breath, a thought, an idea playing across my mind. That is what you are, God; you are subtle. You allow me to feel so that you can take all feeling away. You allow me to pray so that you can refuse my prayers- although I know you shall grant them later. God, there are times where I swear I could say I hate you- and there are times where I love you so, and those too are true.
Oh, my graduation. How I have graduated! How many graduations do you think I have had in this year alone? I don't want to think about it; it's too funny in a contorted, gasping-for-laughter kind of way. If I could wish for anything, I would wish to understand, just as Moses did. And you would deny me, not for the question in and of itself- that was their fault and their misunderstanding; there was never anything wrong with the question- but because the best way to understand is to live the answer. You answered Moses' question. You had him live the answer. You had him live not entering the land. And how he understood that, then, and how bitter and beautiful an understanding it must have been. Is this your plan then, to have me live the answer as well? To fall and fall until I do?
You've taught me already to give up my pride. What pride before a being who can wreak havoc in my life whenever He so chooses? You've had me give up my control. I know, God, believe me, whose world it is and who runs it. And I know it's not me. What more is there for me to give? What else are you going to take from me? You've had every feeling I possess. You have had my hatred, my thanks, my praise, my love and most of all, my anger. What else can I give up to you, God who is Mine? I don't know. But because I don't have the imagination to conceive of it, does not mean that You do not...
You know your opponent and you know I'm damned stubborn. So we're going to play this game, and I'm going to keep losing, and you're going to know it's not really losing but part of your plan to teach me, to have me keep on graduating, from one level to the next. But what is at the end of the game? Not eternal bliss, no. Perhaps an extremely thorough understanding of myself, the entry way to knowledge. But is it worth it? I prayed for this once; would I have prayed for it if I had known the price? Yes, yes, I think I would. Because I'm stubborn, I'm stubborn, I'm stubborn. And God, do I know it! And do you know it! And there is nothing else in the world to do but suffer through and await the bliss you are going to show me at one point in time, or the answer you are going to teach me, over and over, until at last I too will not enter the Promised Land.
And the worst of it is- the worst and most beautiful part- is that I will understand! I will understand the whole way through, just as Moses did, just as You do. I will comprehend it when you deny me the Promised Land because it's not you who is denying it to me- it is me- because I bow my will before Yours. Moses could have taken a step- he could have walked in- you would have killed him but he could have, if he had desired, but he didn't, he didn't! And why didn't he? Why didn't he, I ask you! Because he loved you! Because he loved you still, even then. As I am damned to do as well, and you know it, you know it! You couldn't do this to anyone except that they would love you throughout it all. What a damned, damned game, these levels and graduations and knowledge of the different gradations of pain and beauty. Must they always be linked? There are people who break under this; who says I won't?
Ah, but You know- and I know- that I won't.
I would hate you, God, but I can't because I love you so. I appreciate the brilliance of this game you play with my life, and it allows me to revere and respect You even as I fight it. I find your skill breathtaking, the simplicity of your moves majestic. In everything You do I see beauty.
It would just be so much easier if I could hate You- if I could, of my own volition, enter the Promised Land.
All right, I admit it. I can't control anything. You happy now? You've got what you wanted? No, I don't think you have. You've got me to admit I haven't got the power, but that doesn't mean you want me unhappy. I know what you're up to. You're going to put me through hell before I find what is true, what is happy, what I am meant for. And God, I admit it to you freely; I am scared. I am scared; I don't want this, don't want the pain, don't want the ups and downs and pitfalls and free-falling. I don't want it but I understand it, because You've done it enough times to me that I can understand it; I freaking get it. I get You. I know what you're doing here; I know that I need to learn this stuff but that doesn't mean I have to want to. I think You can understand that, yes? So I'm still fighting You, and You know it, but at the same time I am aware of what you want of me, which is to live, to experience, to suffer through and figure it out as I go along. And I'll give You my best damn shot of doing it, but that means I am going to fight with you sometimes, and be angry at you other times. Which is what I'm being right now, difficult. Yes, I am a difficult child, and you know that because I'm your child. I get it from you. My inheritance, made in your image, is to be just as difficult and stubborn as you could possibly want me to be. You wouldn't take as much pride in being able to break me otherwise, would you?
That's the way this works. You break me into shards so as to humble me completely so that I piece myself back together, stronger than before. Something new, something beautiful. And I exist like that for a little while before you break me again, deeper and more painful than last time. There are so many stages to this; I see them. But God, you've got to forgive me for being scared. Must it hurt so much always? I am going to do it; I can walk through fire if You make me, but the most difficult thing is to make it my choice. To make me realize this is the way it's going to be, these are the rules of the game, and then make me operate off of them. So okay, God, let's put it this way. I'll do this, because I have to, but I have the right to be scared and unhappy and in all ways not okay with it. Because it's difficult to want to learn this way. This is not something you can want. This is Evey in "V for Vendetta" being tortured by V without knowing it, but realizing in the end that it's to make her stronger and that God is in the rain. That's the game you are playing with me. I don't know it's torture because it is so pleasurable for a time, and you even allow me to think it can happen. But then it turns out you were just playing. Trickster God! And I admire you for it. I admire You even for Your trickery...
God, do you mind that this is how I pray to You? A public prayer in order to announce your strength and to tell you I do appropriate homage to You. That I love you, you know, that at times I hate you, you also know. That I realize what you are doing afterwards, but never at the time, you know most of all. I love my murderer, Heathcliff says; at times it is very apt! I love my God; I love my murderer. That's what Holocaust survivors have, that kind of awareness of who and what you are. There are some of them who can never forgive You for what they learned about themselves because of You. That's what kills us, you know, when we are less than what we are. Nothing to do with the physical pain. Only with our expectations of ourselves. God, do you take pleasure in making me fall? I think you do it only to teach me it is possible. And more than that, what is possible. There is so much I would not know except you made me fall.
So stubborn a student and so demanding a teacher! Do you expect me to be all smiles? No, no, I know you don't expect it. But what the hell is your plan for me? Why do I need all this; what is it for? If only I could know what it was for, it would be easier to bear. But I understand- Evey couldn't know her role till she had braved death for it. And it's the same thing. I will not understand until I need to. And in the meantime, you are "subtle but not malicious" as you dance through my life. A whirlwind? No, not a whirlwind. A breath, a thought, an idea playing across my mind. That is what you are, God; you are subtle. You allow me to feel so that you can take all feeling away. You allow me to pray so that you can refuse my prayers- although I know you shall grant them later. God, there are times where I swear I could say I hate you- and there are times where I love you so, and those too are true.
Oh, my graduation. How I have graduated! How many graduations do you think I have had in this year alone? I don't want to think about it; it's too funny in a contorted, gasping-for-laughter kind of way. If I could wish for anything, I would wish to understand, just as Moses did. And you would deny me, not for the question in and of itself- that was their fault and their misunderstanding; there was never anything wrong with the question- but because the best way to understand is to live the answer. You answered Moses' question. You had him live the answer. You had him live not entering the land. And how he understood that, then, and how bitter and beautiful an understanding it must have been. Is this your plan then, to have me live the answer as well? To fall and fall until I do?
You've taught me already to give up my pride. What pride before a being who can wreak havoc in my life whenever He so chooses? You've had me give up my control. I know, God, believe me, whose world it is and who runs it. And I know it's not me. What more is there for me to give? What else are you going to take from me? You've had every feeling I possess. You have had my hatred, my thanks, my praise, my love and most of all, my anger. What else can I give up to you, God who is Mine? I don't know. But because I don't have the imagination to conceive of it, does not mean that You do not...
You know your opponent and you know I'm damned stubborn. So we're going to play this game, and I'm going to keep losing, and you're going to know it's not really losing but part of your plan to teach me, to have me keep on graduating, from one level to the next. But what is at the end of the game? Not eternal bliss, no. Perhaps an extremely thorough understanding of myself, the entry way to knowledge. But is it worth it? I prayed for this once; would I have prayed for it if I had known the price? Yes, yes, I think I would. Because I'm stubborn, I'm stubborn, I'm stubborn. And God, do I know it! And do you know it! And there is nothing else in the world to do but suffer through and await the bliss you are going to show me at one point in time, or the answer you are going to teach me, over and over, until at last I too will not enter the Promised Land.
And the worst of it is- the worst and most beautiful part- is that I will understand! I will understand the whole way through, just as Moses did, just as You do. I will comprehend it when you deny me the Promised Land because it's not you who is denying it to me- it is me- because I bow my will before Yours. Moses could have taken a step- he could have walked in- you would have killed him but he could have, if he had desired, but he didn't, he didn't! And why didn't he? Why didn't he, I ask you! Because he loved you! Because he loved you still, even then. As I am damned to do as well, and you know it, you know it! You couldn't do this to anyone except that they would love you throughout it all. What a damned, damned game, these levels and graduations and knowledge of the different gradations of pain and beauty. Must they always be linked? There are people who break under this; who says I won't?
Ah, but You know- and I know- that I won't.
I would hate you, God, but I can't because I love you so. I appreciate the brilliance of this game you play with my life, and it allows me to revere and respect You even as I fight it. I find your skill breathtaking, the simplicity of your moves majestic. In everything You do I see beauty.
It would just be so much easier if I could hate You- if I could, of my own volition, enter the Promised Land.
Dancing in Fountains
Do you remember the book From The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler?
One of the best scenes in that book was that of the children bathing in the fountain at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. And I always wondered whether it would be possible to bathe or dance in a fountain, just for the pleasure of it, just to see if you could. What would it be like to do that, especially since fountains are the equivalent of wishing wells, which means you'd have your bare feet up against the coins that people throw in, and engage in a dance with the world and nature as one?
Well, now I know! Not at the Met, but at Columbus Circle. If you ever desire to go dancing in fountains at Columbus Circle, you just need to be there at four or five in the morning. It's gorgeous at that time of night, because everything is dim, but the fountain itself is lit up, and so the water is lit. And you can go dancing in fountains! This aside from the fact that you meet the nicest homeless people in the world.
I think I need to be educated about homeles people. For example, I hadn't realized there were all different sorts before; I had figured they somehow fell into a conglomerate. But of course, that's so untrue! So while I was at Columbus Circle with Jordan, we saw this man with a water bottle who was pouring water from the fountain into the vents near the benches. We approached him to ask him why, and in wonderfully articulate English he explained that there are fumes rising through the vents, and that he is trying to stave off their effects. He said that he is against hatred and the slow poisoning of people. When I questioned whether he loved people, then, he said affection is a different matter, but at least he does not hate them. And I found that to be beautiful. Because here he is, this man, truly believing that terrible fumes rise up out of the vents of the city, and does he abandon his post? No! Instead he goes on, pouring water from one vessel into another, saving the city in his own small way.
Perhaps different homeless people are actually supermen in disguise. And I think that's wonderful, that I got to see one of them, because it makes me appreciate them so much the more. How many people can claim they have stayed up a night in order to try to save other human beings they don't even know?
Then we met Becky, who identified herself as a "traveler" rather than a homeless person. She is lovely and very pro-Israel, and told us she would make Jordan a blue-and-white bracelet in the colors of Israel one day. She is the most normal person you would ever meet, except that she believes in aliens and would mention them in the same sentence as a cup of coffee. But honestly, that isn't too strange in our world today. I just found it surprising and gratifying to learn that the man on the street is similar to the man in the corporate world. There is so much to connect people, and so little to separate them.
In other news, I have decided Alibaba's shwarma is inferior to that of Golan Heights, Ari & David's is fun, Times Square is not busy at 4-5 AM (and is beautiful, actually) and hotel lobbies are a party. They are gorgeous, you see, exquisitely decorated and otherwise fascinating. Hurrah for hotel lobbies for the rest of my life!
One of the best scenes in that book was that of the children bathing in the fountain at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. And I always wondered whether it would be possible to bathe or dance in a fountain, just for the pleasure of it, just to see if you could. What would it be like to do that, especially since fountains are the equivalent of wishing wells, which means you'd have your bare feet up against the coins that people throw in, and engage in a dance with the world and nature as one?
Well, now I know! Not at the Met, but at Columbus Circle. If you ever desire to go dancing in fountains at Columbus Circle, you just need to be there at four or five in the morning. It's gorgeous at that time of night, because everything is dim, but the fountain itself is lit up, and so the water is lit. And you can go dancing in fountains! This aside from the fact that you meet the nicest homeless people in the world.
I think I need to be educated about homeles people. For example, I hadn't realized there were all different sorts before; I had figured they somehow fell into a conglomerate. But of course, that's so untrue! So while I was at Columbus Circle with Jordan, we saw this man with a water bottle who was pouring water from the fountain into the vents near the benches. We approached him to ask him why, and in wonderfully articulate English he explained that there are fumes rising through the vents, and that he is trying to stave off their effects. He said that he is against hatred and the slow poisoning of people. When I questioned whether he loved people, then, he said affection is a different matter, but at least he does not hate them. And I found that to be beautiful. Because here he is, this man, truly believing that terrible fumes rise up out of the vents of the city, and does he abandon his post? No! Instead he goes on, pouring water from one vessel into another, saving the city in his own small way.
Perhaps different homeless people are actually supermen in disguise. And I think that's wonderful, that I got to see one of them, because it makes me appreciate them so much the more. How many people can claim they have stayed up a night in order to try to save other human beings they don't even know?
Then we met Becky, who identified herself as a "traveler" rather than a homeless person. She is lovely and very pro-Israel, and told us she would make Jordan a blue-and-white bracelet in the colors of Israel one day. She is the most normal person you would ever meet, except that she believes in aliens and would mention them in the same sentence as a cup of coffee. But honestly, that isn't too strange in our world today. I just found it surprising and gratifying to learn that the man on the street is similar to the man in the corporate world. There is so much to connect people, and so little to separate them.
In other news, I have decided Alibaba's shwarma is inferior to that of Golan Heights, Ari & David's is fun, Times Square is not busy at 4-5 AM (and is beautiful, actually) and hotel lobbies are a party. They are gorgeous, you see, exquisitely decorated and otherwise fascinating. Hurrah for hotel lobbies for the rest of my life!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Daughters of Lot
With thanks to my father, who taught this to me when I was very little.
But what about situations in which we are clearly meant to judge, one might ask. What about situations in which the characters in Tanakh have flaws and suffer from their improper decisions; surely there is nothing wrong in pointing these out? No, there is indeed nothing wrong with that- so long as one does so respectfully. There is a telling story that appears in the introduction to the Igros Moshe, Volume 8, page 15. A man was stricken with a mysterious illness, and no one knew what it represented. He alone knew, and told it over to R’ Moshe. He explained that he had referred to the daughters of Lot as women who had no care about their sexual exploits, promiscuous women who were so promiscuous that they had no shame, the oldest one even determining to name her child “Moav” meaning mei-av- from my father. That night, he dreamt of two elderly women who came to him and lambasted him for his behavior. “We are the daughters of Lot,” they proclaimed, “and despite what you might think, we did not name our children in this manner because we had no shame. Do you know what we could have done? We could have done as the Christians do, and stated that we had virgin births, and that our children were gods. This would have been extremely easy for us. Instead, we chose to suffer shame and to explain that our children came from our father, and were not the sons of God. That is why I clearly named my son Moav- so that one would not take him to be a kind of Jesus.” For his improper behavior, he was stricken with an illness.
It is clear, therefore, that to pass judgment on any biblical character, to mock them or deride them, is simply not to understand them. What is worse, it reflects on the person who mocks, derides or otherwise disrespects them rather than the characters themselves, as is demonstrated in the Gemara. It is the one who does not express himself properly who is suspected of impure lineage, or who will not assuredly become a leader of Israel. It is incredibly important to take care to address the people and subject matter of what is holy with the reverence and respect that is due them. They may have sinned; they may have had flaws, but that does not give us the right to mock these flaws or to speak to them as we would those who are close to us.
But what about situations in which we are clearly meant to judge, one might ask. What about situations in which the characters in Tanakh have flaws and suffer from their improper decisions; surely there is nothing wrong in pointing these out? No, there is indeed nothing wrong with that- so long as one does so respectfully. There is a telling story that appears in the introduction to the Igros Moshe, Volume 8, page 15. A man was stricken with a mysterious illness, and no one knew what it represented. He alone knew, and told it over to R’ Moshe. He explained that he had referred to the daughters of Lot as women who had no care about their sexual exploits, promiscuous women who were so promiscuous that they had no shame, the oldest one even determining to name her child “Moav” meaning mei-av- from my father. That night, he dreamt of two elderly women who came to him and lambasted him for his behavior. “We are the daughters of Lot,” they proclaimed, “and despite what you might think, we did not name our children in this manner because we had no shame. Do you know what we could have done? We could have done as the Christians do, and stated that we had virgin births, and that our children were gods. This would have been extremely easy for us. Instead, we chose to suffer shame and to explain that our children came from our father, and were not the sons of God. That is why I clearly named my son Moav- so that one would not take him to be a kind of Jesus.” For his improper behavior, he was stricken with an illness.
It is clear, therefore, that to pass judgment on any biblical character, to mock them or deride them, is simply not to understand them. What is worse, it reflects on the person who mocks, derides or otherwise disrespects them rather than the characters themselves, as is demonstrated in the Gemara. It is the one who does not express himself properly who is suspected of impure lineage, or who will not assuredly become a leader of Israel. It is incredibly important to take care to address the people and subject matter of what is holy with the reverence and respect that is due them. They may have sinned; they may have had flaws, but that does not give us the right to mock these flaws or to speak to them as we would those who are close to us.
Friday, June 20, 2008
The Glass Room
There once was a woman God created for pain. He placed her behind glass walls and allowed her to watch the lives of many people, as they danced and proceeded through their daily routines. He gifted her with a clarity and vision that touched many people, and allowed her moments of happiness and pure joy. But he gave her a name, and that name was sacrifice. He made her beyond human; he created a world which revolved upon her choice- not her inability- never to venture beyond her glass wall. The world was created for other creations; for her there was only darkness and unimaginable pain. And all this existed in His name, because he had called upon her to be more than mortal. And she, with all that danced within her, was intimately acquainted with darkness and more than aware of everything she desired and wanted, was so cold always, shivering within the confines of a limited and impossible existence. And all she wanted she could have, if only she would venture beyond her glass room.
But she knew what depended upon her solitary station at her forbidden lighthouse, the watch she kept but did not comprehend. She knew the world and all who lay within it, but further, she knew that there was no one who existed for whom she could step outside her cage. There were only people to lead her from it, but no one to cause her to leave of her own volition. For in doing so she doomed those she loved, and she most of all doomed the one who would ask her to leave it.
And so she learned the art of pretense; she learned how to be made of steel, no, of iron. She learned how to be superhuman. She learned how to walk in ways that most are not required to walk, and she hated God at times for it, at the same time that she knew that each sacrifice that was required of her simply brought her closer to Him. It was as though he had chosen her to be His solitary representative in a universe filled with people; she alone existed to float through an ocean of, a sea of pain, stretching impossibly and implacably on.
This was her horizon; this was all that she could see. She watched people living out their lives and was glad for them, but at the bottom of her gladness was a fierce envy, a desire for what she could not have. She was something to people, but she could never be enough, and within the dark blaze of the world outside she seemed to realize that she had been created for this, placed in the world precisely for pain. It was only pain that moved her, pain that made her cry at night, pain that dominated, loved and beautified her, an exquisite darkness that played within her body so that she trembled, and could not stop trembling. Why God had chosen to make her so strong she did not know. She only knew that He had, and that she could not see the purpose in it...
She had an uncanny ability to maneuver the world, her own glass world, and pretend to be fine. But she also had an ability to believe, to believe the pretty words of people and also their pretty promises, to want so much to trust them and wished that at last she would be saved, but there was never a person to do that for her. Instead she tasted of many people's tears, and walked in shadows, because she was never called upon to do anything but give, and her name was created as sacrifice.
How intimately acquainted she was with the depths of human sorrow, and the unhappiness that welled within; she swam within these waters since the time she was born, and could never free herself of them. What existed was a world that was cruel, into which God had placed her, and a task that was impossible, except that she had shouldered it. There was no one else who could inflict such torture upon her, but she was made of steel; she was made of a substance that was unbreakable, and so she learned to give, and to give, and to give...
Please God, that I might live before you, and your servant should one day know no more pain.
But she knew what depended upon her solitary station at her forbidden lighthouse, the watch she kept but did not comprehend. She knew the world and all who lay within it, but further, she knew that there was no one who existed for whom she could step outside her cage. There were only people to lead her from it, but no one to cause her to leave of her own volition. For in doing so she doomed those she loved, and she most of all doomed the one who would ask her to leave it.
And so she learned the art of pretense; she learned how to be made of steel, no, of iron. She learned how to be superhuman. She learned how to walk in ways that most are not required to walk, and she hated God at times for it, at the same time that she knew that each sacrifice that was required of her simply brought her closer to Him. It was as though he had chosen her to be His solitary representative in a universe filled with people; she alone existed to float through an ocean of, a sea of pain, stretching impossibly and implacably on.
This was her horizon; this was all that she could see. She watched people living out their lives and was glad for them, but at the bottom of her gladness was a fierce envy, a desire for what she could not have. She was something to people, but she could never be enough, and within the dark blaze of the world outside she seemed to realize that she had been created for this, placed in the world precisely for pain. It was only pain that moved her, pain that made her cry at night, pain that dominated, loved and beautified her, an exquisite darkness that played within her body so that she trembled, and could not stop trembling. Why God had chosen to make her so strong she did not know. She only knew that He had, and that she could not see the purpose in it...
She had an uncanny ability to maneuver the world, her own glass world, and pretend to be fine. But she also had an ability to believe, to believe the pretty words of people and also their pretty promises, to want so much to trust them and wished that at last she would be saved, but there was never a person to do that for her. Instead she tasted of many people's tears, and walked in shadows, because she was never called upon to do anything but give, and her name was created as sacrifice.
How intimately acquainted she was with the depths of human sorrow, and the unhappiness that welled within; she swam within these waters since the time she was born, and could never free herself of them. What existed was a world that was cruel, into which God had placed her, and a task that was impossible, except that she had shouldered it. There was no one else who could inflict such torture upon her, but she was made of steel; she was made of a substance that was unbreakable, and so she learned to give, and to give, and to give...
Please God, that I might live before you, and your servant should one day know no more pain.
Sacrifice
"Yes, daroga...I felt her tears flow on my forehead...on mine, mine!...They were soft...they were sweet!...They trickled under my mask...they mingled with my tears in my eyes...yes ...they flowed between my lips....Listen, daroga, listen to what I did....I tore off my mask so as not to lose one of her tears...and she did not run away!...And she did not die!... She remained alive, weeping over me, with me. We cried together! I have tasted all the happiness the world can offer!"
And Erik fell into a chair, choking for breath:
"Ah, I am not going to die yet...presently I shall...but let me cry!...Listen, daroga...listen to this....While I was at her feet...I heard her say, `Poor, unhappy Erik!' ... And she took my hand!...I had become no more, you know, than a poor dog ready to die for her....I mean it, daroga!... I held in my hand a ring, a plain gold ring which I had given her ...which she had lost...and which I had found again... a wedding-ring, you know....I slipped it into her little hand and said, `There!...Take it!...Take it for you...and him! ...It shall be my wedding-present a present from your poor, unhappy Erik.....I know you love the boy...don't cry any more! ...She asked me, in a very soft voice, what I meant.... Then I made her understand that, where she was concerned, I was only a poor dog, ready to die for her...but that she could marry the young man when she pleased, because she had cried with me and mingled her tears with mine!..."
~The Phantom of the Opera
And Erik fell into a chair, choking for breath:
"Ah, I am not going to die yet...presently I shall...but let me cry!...Listen, daroga...listen to this....While I was at her feet...I heard her say, `Poor, unhappy Erik!' ... And she took my hand!...I had become no more, you know, than a poor dog ready to die for her....I mean it, daroga!... I held in my hand a ring, a plain gold ring which I had given her ...which she had lost...and which I had found again... a wedding-ring, you know....I slipped it into her little hand and said, `There!...Take it!...Take it for you...and him! ...It shall be my wedding-present a present from your poor, unhappy Erik.....I know you love the boy...don't cry any more! ...She asked me, in a very soft voice, what I meant.... Then I made her understand that, where she was concerned, I was only a poor dog, ready to die for her...but that she could marry the young man when she pleased, because she had cried with me and mingled her tears with mine!..."
~The Phantom of the Opera
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Shavuot
I wrote this when I was 15; I still like it.
~
After having just celebrated the holiday of Shavuot, I began to think about the work we read on this holiday, namely, the Book of Ruth. Works such as Ruth, Ecclesiastes, Lamentations, Song of Songs, and Esther, are referred to as megillot, in the singular form, megillah. Hence, whenever one refers to the megillot, we are aware it is one of the five.
We read 'Ruth' on Shavuot for various reasons, most of them referring to certain meanings found in the holiday itself. Yet my interest lies not so much as to why we read 'Ruth' on Shavuot as to the megillah itself, the work. I noticed this past Shavuot something I think is very interesting- there are many comparisons to be made between the book of 'Ruth' and the book of 'Esther.' This is the topic I shall address in this post.
The first similarity lies, of course, in the title. Both of these works are named after maidens, and specifically relatively young women. Secondly, the story seems to be the same, but in reverse. Esther is a young Jewess who has no desire to reach higher on a social scale. She is quite content being either Mordechai's niece or betrothed (dependant upon different readings of the work.) Yet she is snatched from her comfort zone and placed into the strange castle of riches, Achashveirosh's realm. There, she is eventually wed to Achashveirosh, which makes her a queen, a figure of royalty.
Ruth follows this story, but in reverse. Already a member of royalty, a princess or Moav, she decides to become a simple Jewess and follows Na'ami, her mother-in-law, to Israel. There she accepts her lot and seems content.
Now come some specific similarities.
1) The way in which the megillah begins. The megillot do not begin in the same way, sometimes they will start with their titles, "Shir HaShirim" means Song of Songs, and that is how that work begins, "Eicha" means Lamentations, and that is how that megillah begins. Ecclesiastes begins with the words, "Divrei Kohelet," literally, "the words of Kohelet." Interestingly, Ruth and Esther begin with the same words:
Esther: הוּא אֲחַשְׁוֵרוֹשׁ, הַמֹּלֵךְ מֵהֹדּוּ וְעַד-כּוּשׁ--שֶׁבַע וְעֶשְׂרִים וּמֵאָה, מְדִינָה.
Now it came to pass in the days of Ahasuerus--this is Ahasuerus who reigned, from India even unto Ethiopia, over a hundred and seven and twenty provinces--
Ruth: וַיְהִי, בִּימֵי שְׁפֹט הַשֹּׁפְטִים, וַיְהִי רָעָב, בָּאָרֶץ; וַיֵּלֶךְ אִישׁ מִבֵּית לֶחֶם יְהוּדָה, לָגוּר בִּשְׂדֵי מוֹאָב--הוּא וְאִשְׁתּוֹ, וּשְׁנֵי בָנָיו.
And it came to pass in the days when the judges judged, that there was a famine in the land. And a certain man of Beth-lehem in Judah went to sojourn in the field of Moab, he, and his wife, and his two sons.
Why is this wording important? The reason lies in a Judaic tradition that every time the word "Vayehi," literally, "And it came to pass," appears, it connotes/ foreshadows trouble. Hence we very obviously see that both these megillot will focus in on someone's plight. In Esther, it is the plight of the Jews, as the wicked Haman desires to kill them all. In Ruth, it is also the plight of the Jews, who are suffering from a famine.
2) There is an uncanny similarity between the two heroines and the ways in which they follow their relatives. Ruth was so desirous of remaining close to Na'ami, her mother-in-law, that she said she would follow her/ convert/ do all Na' ami told her to do. Esther also followed all of her relative's, namely Mordechai's, desires and requests. Some verses very obviously point this out.
Esther: אֵין אֶסְתֵּר, מַגֶּדֶת מוֹלַדְתָּהּ וְאֶת-עַמָּהּ, כַּאֲשֶׁר צִוָּה עָלֶיהָ, מָרְדֳּכָי; וְאֶת-מַאֲמַר מָרְדֳּכַי אֶסְתֵּר עֹשָׂה, כַּאֲשֶׁר הָיְתָה {ס}
20 Esther had not yet made known her kindred nor her people; as Mordecai had charged her; for Esther did the commandment of Mordecai, like as when she was brought up with him-- {S}
Ruth: כִּי אֶל-אֲשֶׁר תֵּלְכִי אֵלֵךְ, וּבַאֲשֶׁר תָּלִינִי אָלִין--עַמֵּךְ עַמִּי, וֵאלֹהַיִךְ אֱלֹהָי.
בַּאֲשֶׁר תָּמוּתִי אָמוּת, וְשָׁם אֶקָּבֵר; כֹּה יַעֲשֶׂה יְהוָה לִי, וְכֹה יוֹסִיף--כִּי הַמָּוֶת, יַפְרִיד בֵּינִי וּבֵינֵךְ.
16 And Ruth said: 'Entreat me not to leave thee, and to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God;
17 where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried; the LORD do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.'
3) Notice the way in which they are cared for- Esther is taken in by the "keeper of the women," the eunuch of the harem, while Ruth is watched over by a "keeper of the reapers (mostly maidens)" as well.
Esther: וַיְהִי, בְּהִשָּׁמַע דְּבַר-הַמֶּלֶךְ וְדָתוֹ, וּבְהִקָּבֵץ נְעָרוֹת רַבּוֹת אֶל-שׁוּשַׁן הַבִּירָה, אֶל-יַד הֵגָי; וַתִּלָּקַח אֶסְתֵּר אֶל-בֵּית הַמֶּלֶךְ, אֶל-יַד הֵגַי שֹׁמֵר הַנָּשִׁים.
8 So it came to pass, when the king's commandment and his decree was published, and when many maidens were gathered together unto Shushan the castle, to the custody of Hegai, that Esther was taken into the king's house, to the custody of Hegai, keeper of the women.
Ruth: לְמִי, הַנַּעֲרָה הַזֹּאת.
וַיַּעַן, הַנַּעַר הַנִּצָּב עַל-
נַעֲרָה מוֹאֲבִיָּה הִיא, הַשָּׁבָה עִם-נָעֳמִי מִשְּׂדֵי מוֹאָב.
5 Then said Boaz unto his servant that was set over the reapers: 'Whose damsel is this?'
6 And the servant that was set over the reapers answered and said: 'It is a Moabitish damsel that came back with Naomi out of the field of Moab
4) Then both of these young maidens are charged to do something very unseemly by their guardians/ relatives. Interestingly enough, the command itself is the same- they are both charged to go see a man ( a very influential man, in both cases) even though he has not asked for their presence.
Esther: וְאֶת-פַּתְשֶׁגֶן כְּתָב-הַדָּת אֲשֶׁר-נִתַּן בְּשׁוּשָׁן לְהַשְׁמִידָם, נָתַן לוֹ--לְהַרְאוֹת אֶת-אֶסְתֵּר, וּלְהַגִּיד לָהּ; וּלְצַוּוֹת עָלֶיהָ, לָבוֹא אֶל-הַמֶּלֶךְ לְהִתְחַנֶּן-לוֹ וּלְבַקֵּשׁ מִלְּפָנָיו--עַל-עַמָּהּ.
8 Also he gave him the copy of the writing of the decree that was given out in Shushan to destroy them, to show it unto Esther, and to declare it unto her; and to charge her that she should go in unto the king, to make supplication unto him, and to make request before him, for her people.
Ruth: וְרָחַצְתְּ וָסַכְתְּ, וְשַׂמְתְּ שמלתך (שִׂמְלֹתַיִךְ) עָלַיִךְ--וירדתי (וְיָרַדְתְּ) הַגֹּרֶן; אַל-תִּוָּדְעִי לָאִישׁ, עַד כַּלֹּתוֹ לֶאֱכֹל וְלִשְׁתּוֹת.
וִיהִי בְשָׁכְבוֹ, וְיָדַעַתְּ אֶת-הַמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר יִשְׁכַּב-שָׁם, וּבָאת וְגִלִּית מַרְגְּלֹתָיו, ושכבתי (וְשָׁכָבְתְּ); וְהוּא יַגִּיד לָךְ, אֵת אֲשֶׁר תַּעֲשִׂין.
Wash thyself therefore, and anoint thee, and put thy raiment upon thee, and get thee down to the threshing-floor; but make not thyself known unto the man, until he shall have done eating and drinking.
4 And it shall be, when he lieth down, that thou shalt mark the place where he shall lie, and thou shalt go in, and uncover his feet, and lay thee down; and he will tell thee what thou shalt do.'
Now comes the biggest difference, because Ruth accedes to her mother-in-law's request, but Esther is afraid of death, and tells Mordechai she does not desire to do this. Mordechai warns her that if she does not, then she will not be spared, either.
5) However, they both accede in the end. In both cases, the maidens "find favor" in the eyes of the men.
Esther: וַיְהִי בַּיּוֹם הַשְּׁלִישִׁי, וַתִּלְבַּשׁ אֶסְתֵּר מַלְכוּת, וַתַּעֲמֹד בַּחֲצַר בֵּית-הַמֶּלֶךְ הַפְּנִימִית, נֹכַח בֵּית הַמֶּלֶךְ; וְהַמֶּלֶךְ יוֹשֵׁבעַל-כִּסֵּא מַלְכוּתוֹ, בְּבֵית הַמַּלְכוּת, נֹכַח, פֶּתַח הַבָּיִת.
1 Now it came to pass on the third day, that Esther put on her royal apparel, and stood in the inner court of the king's house, over against the king's house; and the king sat upon his royal throne in the royal house, over against the entrance of the house.
Ruth: וַתֵּרֶד, הַגֹּרֶן; וַתַּעַשׂ, כְּכֹל אֲשֶׁר-צִוַּתָּה חֲמוֹתָהּ.
6 And she went down unto the threshing-floor, and did according to all that her mother-in-law bade her.
And interestingly enough, both women succeed in fulfilling a strange destiny- Esther saves her people by unmasking Haman in front of Achashveirosh (then there is some busy work with letters), while Ruth and Boaz become man and wife (after some busy work with fields and redeemers) and from her lineage comes King David.
Those were just some of my thoughts/ comparisons. ;)
~
After having just celebrated the holiday of Shavuot, I began to think about the work we read on this holiday, namely, the Book of Ruth. Works such as Ruth, Ecclesiastes, Lamentations, Song of Songs, and Esther, are referred to as megillot, in the singular form, megillah. Hence, whenever one refers to the megillot, we are aware it is one of the five.
We read 'Ruth' on Shavuot for various reasons, most of them referring to certain meanings found in the holiday itself. Yet my interest lies not so much as to why we read 'Ruth' on Shavuot as to the megillah itself, the work. I noticed this past Shavuot something I think is very interesting- there are many comparisons to be made between the book of 'Ruth' and the book of 'Esther.' This is the topic I shall address in this post.
The first similarity lies, of course, in the title. Both of these works are named after maidens, and specifically relatively young women. Secondly, the story seems to be the same, but in reverse. Esther is a young Jewess who has no desire to reach higher on a social scale. She is quite content being either Mordechai's niece or betrothed (dependant upon different readings of the work.) Yet she is snatched from her comfort zone and placed into the strange castle of riches, Achashveirosh's realm. There, she is eventually wed to Achashveirosh, which makes her a queen, a figure of royalty.
Ruth follows this story, but in reverse. Already a member of royalty, a princess or Moav, she decides to become a simple Jewess and follows Na'ami, her mother-in-law, to Israel. There she accepts her lot and seems content.
Now come some specific similarities.
1) The way in which the megillah begins. The megillot do not begin in the same way, sometimes they will start with their titles, "Shir HaShirim" means Song of Songs, and that is how that work begins, "Eicha" means Lamentations, and that is how that megillah begins. Ecclesiastes begins with the words, "Divrei Kohelet," literally, "the words of Kohelet." Interestingly, Ruth and Esther begin with the same words:
Esther: הוּא אֲחַשְׁוֵרוֹשׁ, הַמֹּלֵךְ מֵהֹדּוּ וְעַד-כּוּשׁ--שֶׁבַע וְעֶשְׂרִים וּמֵאָה, מְדִינָה.
Now it came to pass in the days of Ahasuerus--this is Ahasuerus who reigned, from India even unto Ethiopia, over a hundred and seven and twenty provinces--
Ruth: וַיְהִי, בִּימֵי שְׁפֹט הַשֹּׁפְטִים, וַיְהִי רָעָב, בָּאָרֶץ; וַיֵּלֶךְ אִישׁ מִבֵּית לֶחֶם יְהוּדָה, לָגוּר בִּשְׂדֵי מוֹאָב--הוּא וְאִשְׁתּוֹ, וּשְׁנֵי בָנָיו.
And it came to pass in the days when the judges judged, that there was a famine in the land. And a certain man of Beth-lehem in Judah went to sojourn in the field of Moab, he, and his wife, and his two sons.
Why is this wording important? The reason lies in a Judaic tradition that every time the word "Vayehi," literally, "And it came to pass," appears, it connotes/ foreshadows trouble. Hence we very obviously see that both these megillot will focus in on someone's plight. In Esther, it is the plight of the Jews, as the wicked Haman desires to kill them all. In Ruth, it is also the plight of the Jews, who are suffering from a famine.
2) There is an uncanny similarity between the two heroines and the ways in which they follow their relatives. Ruth was so desirous of remaining close to Na'ami, her mother-in-law, that she said she would follow her/ convert/ do all Na' ami told her to do. Esther also followed all of her relative's, namely Mordechai's, desires and requests. Some verses very obviously point this out.
Esther: אֵין אֶסְתֵּר, מַגֶּדֶת מוֹלַדְתָּהּ וְאֶת-עַמָּהּ, כַּאֲשֶׁר צִוָּה עָלֶיהָ, מָרְדֳּכָי; וְאֶת-מַאֲמַר מָרְדֳּכַי אֶסְתֵּר עֹשָׂה, כַּאֲשֶׁר הָיְתָה {ס}
20 Esther had not yet made known her kindred nor her people; as Mordecai had charged her; for Esther did the commandment of Mordecai, like as when she was brought up with him-- {S}
Ruth: כִּי אֶל-אֲשֶׁר תֵּלְכִי אֵלֵךְ, וּבַאֲשֶׁר תָּלִינִי אָלִין--עַמֵּךְ עַמִּי, וֵאלֹהַיִךְ אֱלֹהָי.
בַּאֲשֶׁר תָּמוּתִי אָמוּת, וְשָׁם אֶקָּבֵר; כֹּה יַעֲשֶׂה יְהוָה לִי, וְכֹה יוֹסִיף--כִּי הַמָּוֶת, יַפְרִיד בֵּינִי וּבֵינֵךְ.
16 And Ruth said: 'Entreat me not to leave thee, and to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God;
17 where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried; the LORD do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.'
3) Notice the way in which they are cared for- Esther is taken in by the "keeper of the women," the eunuch of the harem, while Ruth is watched over by a "keeper of the reapers (mostly maidens)" as well.
Esther: וַיְהִי, בְּהִשָּׁמַע דְּבַר-הַמֶּלֶךְ וְדָתוֹ, וּבְהִקָּבֵץ נְעָרוֹת רַבּוֹת אֶל-שׁוּשַׁן הַבִּירָה, אֶל-יַד הֵגָי; וַתִּלָּקַח אֶסְתֵּר אֶל-בֵּית הַמֶּלֶךְ, אֶל-יַד הֵגַי שֹׁמֵר הַנָּשִׁים.
8 So it came to pass, when the king's commandment and his decree was published, and when many maidens were gathered together unto Shushan the castle, to the custody of Hegai, that Esther was taken into the king's house, to the custody of Hegai, keeper of the women.
Ruth: לְמִי, הַנַּעֲרָה הַזֹּאת.
וַיַּעַן, הַנַּעַר הַנִּצָּב עַל-
נַעֲרָה מוֹאֲבִיָּה הִיא, הַשָּׁבָה עִם-נָעֳמִי מִשְּׂדֵי מוֹאָב.
5 Then said Boaz unto his servant that was set over the reapers: 'Whose damsel is this?'
6 And the servant that was set over the reapers answered and said: 'It is a Moabitish damsel that came back with Naomi out of the field of Moab
4) Then both of these young maidens are charged to do something very unseemly by their guardians/ relatives. Interestingly enough, the command itself is the same- they are both charged to go see a man ( a very influential man, in both cases) even though he has not asked for their presence.
Esther: וְאֶת-פַּתְשֶׁגֶן כְּתָב-הַדָּת אֲשֶׁר-נִתַּן בְּשׁוּשָׁן לְהַשְׁמִידָם, נָתַן לוֹ--לְהַרְאוֹת אֶת-אֶסְתֵּר, וּלְהַגִּיד לָהּ; וּלְצַוּוֹת עָלֶיהָ, לָבוֹא אֶל-הַמֶּלֶךְ לְהִתְחַנֶּן-לוֹ וּלְבַקֵּשׁ מִלְּפָנָיו--עַל-עַמָּהּ.
8 Also he gave him the copy of the writing of the decree that was given out in Shushan to destroy them, to show it unto Esther, and to declare it unto her; and to charge her that she should go in unto the king, to make supplication unto him, and to make request before him, for her people.
Ruth: וְרָחַצְתְּ וָסַכְתְּ, וְשַׂמְתְּ שמלתך (שִׂמְלֹתַיִךְ) עָלַיִךְ--וירדתי (וְיָרַדְתְּ) הַגֹּרֶן; אַל-תִּוָּדְעִי לָאִישׁ, עַד כַּלֹּתוֹ לֶאֱכֹל וְלִשְׁתּוֹת.
וִיהִי בְשָׁכְבוֹ, וְיָדַעַתְּ אֶת-הַמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר יִשְׁכַּב-שָׁם, וּבָאת וְגִלִּית מַרְגְּלֹתָיו, ושכבתי (וְשָׁכָבְתְּ); וְהוּא יַגִּיד לָךְ, אֵת אֲשֶׁר תַּעֲשִׂין.
Wash thyself therefore, and anoint thee, and put thy raiment upon thee, and get thee down to the threshing-floor; but make not thyself known unto the man, until he shall have done eating and drinking.
4 And it shall be, when he lieth down, that thou shalt mark the place where he shall lie, and thou shalt go in, and uncover his feet, and lay thee down; and he will tell thee what thou shalt do.'
Now comes the biggest difference, because Ruth accedes to her mother-in-law's request, but Esther is afraid of death, and tells Mordechai she does not desire to do this. Mordechai warns her that if she does not, then she will not be spared, either.
5) However, they both accede in the end. In both cases, the maidens "find favor" in the eyes of the men.
Esther: וַיְהִי בַּיּוֹם הַשְּׁלִישִׁי, וַתִּלְבַּשׁ אֶסְתֵּר מַלְכוּת, וַתַּעֲמֹד בַּחֲצַר בֵּית-הַמֶּלֶךְ הַפְּנִימִית, נֹכַח בֵּית הַמֶּלֶךְ; וְהַמֶּלֶךְ יוֹשֵׁבעַל-כִּסֵּא מַלְכוּתוֹ, בְּבֵית הַמַּלְכוּת, נֹכַח, פֶּתַח הַבָּיִת.
1 Now it came to pass on the third day, that Esther put on her royal apparel, and stood in the inner court of the king's house, over against the king's house; and the king sat upon his royal throne in the royal house, over against the entrance of the house.
Ruth: וַתֵּרֶד, הַגֹּרֶן; וַתַּעַשׂ, כְּכֹל אֲשֶׁר-צִוַּתָּה חֲמוֹתָהּ.
6 And she went down unto the threshing-floor, and did according to all that her mother-in-law bade her.
And interestingly enough, both women succeed in fulfilling a strange destiny- Esther saves her people by unmasking Haman in front of Achashveirosh (then there is some busy work with letters), while Ruth and Boaz become man and wife (after some busy work with fields and redeemers) and from her lineage comes King David.
Those were just some of my thoughts/ comparisons. ;)
Saturday, June 07, 2008
absorbent beauty: an assimilation of darkness
A story
His sight was failing him.
He had never thought he would come to this, where he struggled to make out images, pressing his fists fiercely against the sockets of his eyes, as though in this way he could block out the encroaching darkness. If this were an enemy he could fight…! But it was not, and after being told that there was no treatment, he simply resigned himself to the reality: he, whose very profession it was to capture images and put them down on paper, was going blind. It was a testament to his strength of will that he did not allow himself to weep. He thought over his options, realized that he could still type, so long as his wife were to turn on the computer for him and sent him up with a Word Document, that he had the ability still to place from memory what moved him upon the page.
But in the meantime this darkness seeped in slowly, first at the corners of his vision, then taking more. This along with the trembling that seized his hands at times; at first he thought that, too, came with a kind of illness, but soon learned it was merely a fit of nerves, his reaction to the blindness. This calmed him and allowed him to take himself in order, so that at times he was quiet, still, his hands still as well, resting motionless at his sides. He breathed in deeply, then out again. He opened his eyes to see if anything had changed. But it was only that the world around him had grown dimmer, was more foreign. There was only his wife who was familiar to him and she, too, was fading every day.
When he woke this morning he saw her as flashes of sound and light. Not poetry, this, but a reality made new to him. The sparkle of her golden necklace caught his eye, the fabric of her dress as it touched against his leg. Even her hair as it cascaded down her back; all of this was light to him, light and touch. He saw the light reflecting off of it but could not see her features. He recalled them to him with a fierce effort of will, so that standing in his mind again he saw those compassionate green eyes, her soft lips, her heart-shaped face. He smiled at the irony of having to close his eyes in order to see better. He opened them again so as not to deny himself, not to ease the transition from this cacophony of half-seen images to the darkness that awaited him.
Even this he must set into writing, tell unto the world. This groping for the light, this puzzled confusion that assailed his sight; all this was something that he was beginning at last to grasp, to understand. He was far past the horror of it and looked only with curiosity upon the world, now. He was very sensitive to light. It was light that caught his eye, and objects that could only be perceived as shapes, so grandly large and structured were they. He knew to avoid these, could walk well enough with a cane, and preferred not to have anyone assist him as of yet.
Why his wife was as yet so calm, he could not answer. There were many times he remained awake, waiting for the telltale sign of her unhappiness, of the tears that she must shed. But he heard nothing. He only felt her beside him, sleeping smoothly, and an intense love welled up within him, that she seemed not to care what a dependant he had become, that she did not curse what fate had wrought for them. What bitter irony it was that it must be him, of all people, he who needed his eyes the most, who must lose them! What use a man without his eyes? He might as well be dead, he who cannot take in the world, who cannot perceive it in all its astonishing beauty at each moment of the day and night.
He took refuge in sounds now, learning to accustom himself to them, the quiet cough of the coffeemaker after it had finished trickling its brown liquid forth, the steps of his wife, soft when she wore the padded slippers that were her wont, stronger when she had donned her stilettos or some other form of dress shoe. He imagined her in front of the mirror, applying her cosmetics as she went outside, to do the shopping or otherwise to provide for them, and he laughed bitterly that he could not see her. How strange it must be to be married to a man who could not even appreciate you, though even now he could, but slightly; he saw her lips in a red shimmer, and her face itself had evolved into a kind of peach circle, but even that was better than nothing, and hungrily, he clung to it. He must memorize every image before it was taken from him completely, before he had nothing left but the memory of this, something altogether harsh and damnable.
There was the slight creak of the door as it opened, the turning of the key in the lock- there was the exquisite sound of music as it poured through the speakers. Odd that he had never been much for music, before; it had been words that awoke his soul, but now he could not read. Oh, but his wife read to him, her voice musical and sweet, and he lived for those moments that she read to him, spoke to him, told him anything- whether it be the news or something philosophical, a book that he requested. How patient she was, to put up with his many requests! He had never realized before the surfeit of books with which he had gifted himself, the amount of time he had spent reading words, words, words. Black and white words swam before his eyes, danced before him, mocking him, words on stopsigns and highway road images, words in books that had streamed together when he had inadvertently spilled coffee upon the page, works written in love upon a notepad when he went out to buy breakfast but wanted his wife to know where he had gone, words, words, words, beautiful and a blessing, something so exquisite; he had not known how to appreciate their essence before. The essence of beauty, for him, had lain in words, and now they were not his anymore.
Oh, he could speak, and dictate if he wished, but that was not the same, not the same as the fingers clacking implacably against a keyboard as he sped through the story in his mind, relaying it upon paper, putting ideas upon the page. Unless he counted the precise number of letters in a word, he would not know how many stops to backspace, now, if he wanted to change something- and he would not be able to reread something he had written, but only have it read to him. He feared his dependency and hated it; he, who had been the breadwinner, reduced to this, the closed four corners of a world bounded by blackness, the darkness of his unhappiness, the despair it caused him. And yet, who was he to complain? It was his wife, his wife that he pitied, so that at times thoughts of suicide crossed his mind, not that he had any true plan but he believed that she must pity him now, who had never given her cause to pity him, and that hurt his pride and caused him pain. Also, what kind of life for her was this, forever chained to a blind man, a man who begged her to be his eyes, to describe to him the dawn and the darkness, all that which he could only see in flashes now, and soon would not see forevermore?
There was a kind of darkness of spirit that weighed upon him, a gloom that ever-intensified, something which he tried to hide from her. He was amazed that he did not feel her cheer to be false or overbright; she seemed to have accepted who he had become and did not love him any less. Even so, there was something suspicious in his mind, for he could not take this gift; it did not make sense. How could a woman like her, young, or at least youthful, and beautiful, resign herself to being chained to him? He was a burden to her, who had once been able to make her happy- for with this he flattered himself- and he hated the fact that he could not do this any longer, that it was she who patiently washed him and combed his hair, helped him dress, helped him to the bathroom, who guided his hand to his fork and enabled him to eat, she who had become his nursemaid even though he was not yet old. He felt himself to be less than a man, though he did not confess it to her; he did not want to worry her, who was an angel, with the acknowledgement that he felt himself unworthy.
But he could still see, and damn it, he would see- he opened his eyes to take in the light, the fuzzy flashes of color that remained to him. Yes, that was red, and there green- and there the sounds outside. He made his way over to the panel, the bright window that led to their balcony. He stared outside, could make out the chairs upon the balcony floor, white lawn chairs. He explored them with his eyes, and then thought that in the future he should only know them through his fingers; his hands would become his instrument, his entry into an unknown world. No longer would he be able to assess friend or foe from their manner or the expression on their face; he would not realize that he was being laughed at or mocked except from a slight change in tone; he would have to gain acuity in all these lesser senses, allow himself an entryway so as to save himself from the darkness. He looked outside again, and felt with a sense of overwhelming unhappiness the pain of not being alive, of not being himself, and then, he could not help it; he crouched down upon the floor and cradled his head in his hands, letting the tears flow.
It was in this way that his wife found him, and he could hear her anxiety in the clack of her heels against the floor, and the groceries that had spilled from her hands with a thud, the bags that hit the tiles. He felt her hands on his face; her hands soft and cool against his beard, which must bruise her, slightly abrasive, the stubble that was forming on his face; he could not see to shave. He felt her hands explore his face, touching lightly upon his eyelids, then felt her lips lowered to his eyes as well, kissing away the tears. He felt her lick delicately at one, then cup his chin, trailing kisses down to his lips, where he met her lips awkwardly. She was so close to him now that he opened his eyes and could see hers, make out a whole eye with absolute clarity, and it was this blessing that brought home to him what he still had, and what was still his. She placed his hand against her back and sat there on the floor with him, her legs curled underneath her body, between his knees, his back against the wall, and kissed him persuasively, and gently, until he was alive with desire. She did not speak to him just then, but only guided him, and after a time she rose to put away the groceries, and to set about their familiar routine.
She took him to their bathroom and drew him a shower; she accompanied him and helped to wash him, soaping his back and drawing the sponge over his body. She laughed out loud, a delightful sound, amidst the soap and spray, and ran her fingers through his wet hair. He shivered with sensation. He felt her kneel, felt her cleanse him, save him, purify him even now. He opened his eyes still to see, and realized how God had gifted him, and in what way. He wanted to thank her; he didn’t have the words- he reached for her; she found him; he enwrapped her in an embrace. She led him and played with him, as though she were a child, and finally, turning off the tap, she stepped out first so that she might dry him off, with a towel. With a smile he caught her and enwrapped her in the towel as well; she was surprised, as well she might be, by the sudden moment of joy that overtook them both. Well, and there is joy in darkness, he thought to himself, and he was glad to know it, and realized that he was luckier than most men, and gifted besides.
Things continued in this way, and each day his sight deteriorated, and the doctor his wife brought him to was increasingly pessimistic. He had accepted his fate, and she as well, but words were painful and stuck in his throat. He saw less and less every day, and reacted to this differently at different times, sometimes what he felt was that there was an agonizing amount still to write, and that he had not the words to do it all, so that he covered sheets and sheets with scribbles about the world as it was, and only she could cool his fervor, calming him when he needed it, stopping him so that he might sleep, and enter a world of darkness just like the one that was claiming him.
There was a day when he woke to blackness. “I can’t see,” he said, and he felt her stiffen, and then sit up beside him in the bed. She hugged him; he felt her arms around him and wanted to throw them off, as though they were a chain; he wanted to scream, to shout, to blame her; cannot you see, you fool, that I am blind, and useless, and that your love is thrown away on such a one as me, why don’t you leave me, as I have no doubt you will, once you have been tested and tried, and then realized that such thoughts were ungrateful of him, so that he leaned against her, relying completely upon sensation, realizing that he had no sight to guide him. She helped him to dress and made him breakfast, set about telling him the morning news, spoke to him cheerfully, read to him and provided what amusement she could. She touched him frequently, as though to assure him, to let him know that she was still alive and close, and that he was not left adrift in this sightless world, and he, for his part, decided to be fascinated by the light pressure of the warmth upon his eyes, of the smells that assailed him. Had he ever been so completely aware of his wife’s perfume? No, he decided, and nuzzled against her shoulder to smell it better, and looked up at her, or at least in the direction he thought she was, and told her “You are beautiful.” And he heard a strange catch in her laugh and thought, at last; it has caught up with her at last, she cannot help it, she is dying of pain for me, and moodily, he wished that he had ended this when he still could have found the implements to do so, for now he was a burden to her, and he wished more than anything not to be that to her.
He heard her later, crying, and wished that he might dry her tears, that he might somehow tell her that it would be all right, but it wouldn’t be, never again; he was not a man, simply an encumbrance, and their marriage was as well. He would tell her that he would divorce her- pain struck him at the thought of it- and that she would have her life back. He would hire someone for himself- surely his parents could see to it; they could find someone who would not rob him blind, and who would care for him, or care at least for the money he would pay them, he thought cynically, for no man cares for his fellow, only for his fellow’s pocketbook. And with this thought in mind he was silent, and waited for her, to tell her.
They were in bed. She had cuddled up beside him and perhaps thought him asleep. “I will divorce you, if you wish it,” he said, and the words sounded curt and formal, and harsh, more harsh than he had wished them to be. “I will divorce you,” he said more softly, “this is no life for you,” but he was stopped with the touch of a finger to his lips, and then her mouth, salty and sweet beneath his, and her tongue, playing upon his lips. He uttered a soft sigh and felt her face, the hard, pert chin; his finger grazed an ear and the strands of hair beside it. He allowed his hand to rest on her hair, to run through it, strands of exquisite softness that in his memory recalled themselves to him as gold, and he felt her undressing him, and putting his clothes aside, so that they might lie skin to skin, and flesh to flesh.
The warmth of her! The incredible warmth; it was as though her skin blazed with light, and he felt her turn, so that he caressed her back, his fingers exploratory pads upon the ridges and planes of her shoulders, her spine, the curve of her buttocks. He reached his hand beneath her hair to find her neck, kissed it through her hair, and felt her body respond; she shivered. A touch, then; he had never realized the power of a touch as he did now. He did not kiss but simply moved his lips from the tips of her fingers up one arm, till he reached the shoulder; it was gentle. He felt the growing hairs upon her arm and smiled to imagine them, each growing hair follicle upon that arm was his. He reached her shoulder with his mouth and took hold of her waist between his hands. She placed his hand upon her breast; he circled it, only now becoming aware of her in a new and different way. He reached her nipple and flicked it with a practiced hand, and became aware once again of the way it hardened to his touch, so that he lowered his mouth to her and felt her moan with desire, and he felt himself again to be a man.
There were tears in his eyes, but they were tears of exaltation, as though he had discovered something more mysterious and beautiful than anything he had ever known. He learned her body anew, felt it tighten and tauten beneath him, felt her relaxation, her ease. He nuzzled her to him, played her with his fingers, caressed her with his hands and mouth. He felt her turn to him with desire, felt her fingers in his hair, heard her murmur words low and intoxicating, “I love you,” she said, and then later, stronger, just as passionately and just as committed, when both were in a golden haze, having satisfied the desires of the body, “I love you,” and he held her closer to him in the darkness, and felt that he had been touched by a little of what was beautiful in the world.
He learned her shape, her curves, her fingers, her toes. He fell wildly in love with the little hollow at her throat, which he nuzzled with his mouth and touched with his hands, and he learned, too, what torturous joy the hands could inflict. His hands skimmed her as though she were a pond of water, and he creating ripples, or pressed as he increasingly demanded of her and she gave unflinchingly, willingly, with desire and a little awe. His hands touched fleetingly or rested in one spot. He could feel the little scar upon her back- an upraised piece that was surprisingly smooth, smoother even than her skin. This too he worshipped with his body, even as he worshipped all of her, her skin, her eyes, her face and hair. Their bodies entwined to mimic their souls, which rested peacefully, cocooned together in a nest of light and darkness. And he learned that he was not blind after all, when he had the capacity still to give to her, and he learned too that she loved him. He was attentive to every sound she made, each whimper or murmur, every cry, uplifted and sanctified, as though she were an angel, but a human angel, one who was created for him, to save him and love him even though he was not worthy, and would never understand from what depths of the soul she was able to come to him still, and not find him repulsive or repugnant.
“Your eyes,” at last she whispered, “your beautiful eyes,” and she lightly danced her fingers on the lids, so as to have him flutter them open. He saw only darkness but he felt her tense; she was crying now. “They are so beautiful, still,” she said, “if only you could see them. They are green, but there are ripples of blue, and grey, and one would not know you cannot see. I am so sorry,” she said at last, and he thought his heart was break. She was sorry? She, who had every cause to turn against him, to rail against their misfortune, to save herself and run from him; she was sorry?
“I do not know what I deserve,” he said thickly, “but it is not this—“ and he motioned in an effort to encapsulate her and all that she was.
“I know, darling,” she said very softly, “you do not deserve this,” and he realized she had misunderstood him, and thought he was referring to his blindness.
“No,” he said strongly, clearly, “that was not what I meant. It is you I am speaking of- I do not know what madness it was that made you accept me that June, I only know that I was blessed, and that I am blessed- to have you in my life. And that this has only made me see it clearer,” he motioned to his eyes, “I have loved you always, but I do not know if I have ever known you as clearly as I know you in this moment.”
He could feel her wish to say something, to protest, to tell him it was of no import, but he did not let her; he merely cradled her closer, and nestled together, they slept.
~
Credits: Blindness by Jose Saramago, "The Fountain" soundtrack
His sight was failing him.
He had never thought he would come to this, where he struggled to make out images, pressing his fists fiercely against the sockets of his eyes, as though in this way he could block out the encroaching darkness. If this were an enemy he could fight…! But it was not, and after being told that there was no treatment, he simply resigned himself to the reality: he, whose very profession it was to capture images and put them down on paper, was going blind. It was a testament to his strength of will that he did not allow himself to weep. He thought over his options, realized that he could still type, so long as his wife were to turn on the computer for him and sent him up with a Word Document, that he had the ability still to place from memory what moved him upon the page.
But in the meantime this darkness seeped in slowly, first at the corners of his vision, then taking more. This along with the trembling that seized his hands at times; at first he thought that, too, came with a kind of illness, but soon learned it was merely a fit of nerves, his reaction to the blindness. This calmed him and allowed him to take himself in order, so that at times he was quiet, still, his hands still as well, resting motionless at his sides. He breathed in deeply, then out again. He opened his eyes to see if anything had changed. But it was only that the world around him had grown dimmer, was more foreign. There was only his wife who was familiar to him and she, too, was fading every day.
When he woke this morning he saw her as flashes of sound and light. Not poetry, this, but a reality made new to him. The sparkle of her golden necklace caught his eye, the fabric of her dress as it touched against his leg. Even her hair as it cascaded down her back; all of this was light to him, light and touch. He saw the light reflecting off of it but could not see her features. He recalled them to him with a fierce effort of will, so that standing in his mind again he saw those compassionate green eyes, her soft lips, her heart-shaped face. He smiled at the irony of having to close his eyes in order to see better. He opened them again so as not to deny himself, not to ease the transition from this cacophony of half-seen images to the darkness that awaited him.
Even this he must set into writing, tell unto the world. This groping for the light, this puzzled confusion that assailed his sight; all this was something that he was beginning at last to grasp, to understand. He was far past the horror of it and looked only with curiosity upon the world, now. He was very sensitive to light. It was light that caught his eye, and objects that could only be perceived as shapes, so grandly large and structured were they. He knew to avoid these, could walk well enough with a cane, and preferred not to have anyone assist him as of yet.
Why his wife was as yet so calm, he could not answer. There were many times he remained awake, waiting for the telltale sign of her unhappiness, of the tears that she must shed. But he heard nothing. He only felt her beside him, sleeping smoothly, and an intense love welled up within him, that she seemed not to care what a dependant he had become, that she did not curse what fate had wrought for them. What bitter irony it was that it must be him, of all people, he who needed his eyes the most, who must lose them! What use a man without his eyes? He might as well be dead, he who cannot take in the world, who cannot perceive it in all its astonishing beauty at each moment of the day and night.
He took refuge in sounds now, learning to accustom himself to them, the quiet cough of the coffeemaker after it had finished trickling its brown liquid forth, the steps of his wife, soft when she wore the padded slippers that were her wont, stronger when she had donned her stilettos or some other form of dress shoe. He imagined her in front of the mirror, applying her cosmetics as she went outside, to do the shopping or otherwise to provide for them, and he laughed bitterly that he could not see her. How strange it must be to be married to a man who could not even appreciate you, though even now he could, but slightly; he saw her lips in a red shimmer, and her face itself had evolved into a kind of peach circle, but even that was better than nothing, and hungrily, he clung to it. He must memorize every image before it was taken from him completely, before he had nothing left but the memory of this, something altogether harsh and damnable.
There was the slight creak of the door as it opened, the turning of the key in the lock- there was the exquisite sound of music as it poured through the speakers. Odd that he had never been much for music, before; it had been words that awoke his soul, but now he could not read. Oh, but his wife read to him, her voice musical and sweet, and he lived for those moments that she read to him, spoke to him, told him anything- whether it be the news or something philosophical, a book that he requested. How patient she was, to put up with his many requests! He had never realized before the surfeit of books with which he had gifted himself, the amount of time he had spent reading words, words, words. Black and white words swam before his eyes, danced before him, mocking him, words on stopsigns and highway road images, words in books that had streamed together when he had inadvertently spilled coffee upon the page, works written in love upon a notepad when he went out to buy breakfast but wanted his wife to know where he had gone, words, words, words, beautiful and a blessing, something so exquisite; he had not known how to appreciate their essence before. The essence of beauty, for him, had lain in words, and now they were not his anymore.
Oh, he could speak, and dictate if he wished, but that was not the same, not the same as the fingers clacking implacably against a keyboard as he sped through the story in his mind, relaying it upon paper, putting ideas upon the page. Unless he counted the precise number of letters in a word, he would not know how many stops to backspace, now, if he wanted to change something- and he would not be able to reread something he had written, but only have it read to him. He feared his dependency and hated it; he, who had been the breadwinner, reduced to this, the closed four corners of a world bounded by blackness, the darkness of his unhappiness, the despair it caused him. And yet, who was he to complain? It was his wife, his wife that he pitied, so that at times thoughts of suicide crossed his mind, not that he had any true plan but he believed that she must pity him now, who had never given her cause to pity him, and that hurt his pride and caused him pain. Also, what kind of life for her was this, forever chained to a blind man, a man who begged her to be his eyes, to describe to him the dawn and the darkness, all that which he could only see in flashes now, and soon would not see forevermore?
There was a kind of darkness of spirit that weighed upon him, a gloom that ever-intensified, something which he tried to hide from her. He was amazed that he did not feel her cheer to be false or overbright; she seemed to have accepted who he had become and did not love him any less. Even so, there was something suspicious in his mind, for he could not take this gift; it did not make sense. How could a woman like her, young, or at least youthful, and beautiful, resign herself to being chained to him? He was a burden to her, who had once been able to make her happy- for with this he flattered himself- and he hated the fact that he could not do this any longer, that it was she who patiently washed him and combed his hair, helped him dress, helped him to the bathroom, who guided his hand to his fork and enabled him to eat, she who had become his nursemaid even though he was not yet old. He felt himself to be less than a man, though he did not confess it to her; he did not want to worry her, who was an angel, with the acknowledgement that he felt himself unworthy.
But he could still see, and damn it, he would see- he opened his eyes to take in the light, the fuzzy flashes of color that remained to him. Yes, that was red, and there green- and there the sounds outside. He made his way over to the panel, the bright window that led to their balcony. He stared outside, could make out the chairs upon the balcony floor, white lawn chairs. He explored them with his eyes, and then thought that in the future he should only know them through his fingers; his hands would become his instrument, his entry into an unknown world. No longer would he be able to assess friend or foe from their manner or the expression on their face; he would not realize that he was being laughed at or mocked except from a slight change in tone; he would have to gain acuity in all these lesser senses, allow himself an entryway so as to save himself from the darkness. He looked outside again, and felt with a sense of overwhelming unhappiness the pain of not being alive, of not being himself, and then, he could not help it; he crouched down upon the floor and cradled his head in his hands, letting the tears flow.
It was in this way that his wife found him, and he could hear her anxiety in the clack of her heels against the floor, and the groceries that had spilled from her hands with a thud, the bags that hit the tiles. He felt her hands on his face; her hands soft and cool against his beard, which must bruise her, slightly abrasive, the stubble that was forming on his face; he could not see to shave. He felt her hands explore his face, touching lightly upon his eyelids, then felt her lips lowered to his eyes as well, kissing away the tears. He felt her lick delicately at one, then cup his chin, trailing kisses down to his lips, where he met her lips awkwardly. She was so close to him now that he opened his eyes and could see hers, make out a whole eye with absolute clarity, and it was this blessing that brought home to him what he still had, and what was still his. She placed his hand against her back and sat there on the floor with him, her legs curled underneath her body, between his knees, his back against the wall, and kissed him persuasively, and gently, until he was alive with desire. She did not speak to him just then, but only guided him, and after a time she rose to put away the groceries, and to set about their familiar routine.
She took him to their bathroom and drew him a shower; she accompanied him and helped to wash him, soaping his back and drawing the sponge over his body. She laughed out loud, a delightful sound, amidst the soap and spray, and ran her fingers through his wet hair. He shivered with sensation. He felt her kneel, felt her cleanse him, save him, purify him even now. He opened his eyes still to see, and realized how God had gifted him, and in what way. He wanted to thank her; he didn’t have the words- he reached for her; she found him; he enwrapped her in an embrace. She led him and played with him, as though she were a child, and finally, turning off the tap, she stepped out first so that she might dry him off, with a towel. With a smile he caught her and enwrapped her in the towel as well; she was surprised, as well she might be, by the sudden moment of joy that overtook them both. Well, and there is joy in darkness, he thought to himself, and he was glad to know it, and realized that he was luckier than most men, and gifted besides.
Things continued in this way, and each day his sight deteriorated, and the doctor his wife brought him to was increasingly pessimistic. He had accepted his fate, and she as well, but words were painful and stuck in his throat. He saw less and less every day, and reacted to this differently at different times, sometimes what he felt was that there was an agonizing amount still to write, and that he had not the words to do it all, so that he covered sheets and sheets with scribbles about the world as it was, and only she could cool his fervor, calming him when he needed it, stopping him so that he might sleep, and enter a world of darkness just like the one that was claiming him.
There was a day when he woke to blackness. “I can’t see,” he said, and he felt her stiffen, and then sit up beside him in the bed. She hugged him; he felt her arms around him and wanted to throw them off, as though they were a chain; he wanted to scream, to shout, to blame her; cannot you see, you fool, that I am blind, and useless, and that your love is thrown away on such a one as me, why don’t you leave me, as I have no doubt you will, once you have been tested and tried, and then realized that such thoughts were ungrateful of him, so that he leaned against her, relying completely upon sensation, realizing that he had no sight to guide him. She helped him to dress and made him breakfast, set about telling him the morning news, spoke to him cheerfully, read to him and provided what amusement she could. She touched him frequently, as though to assure him, to let him know that she was still alive and close, and that he was not left adrift in this sightless world, and he, for his part, decided to be fascinated by the light pressure of the warmth upon his eyes, of the smells that assailed him. Had he ever been so completely aware of his wife’s perfume? No, he decided, and nuzzled against her shoulder to smell it better, and looked up at her, or at least in the direction he thought she was, and told her “You are beautiful.” And he heard a strange catch in her laugh and thought, at last; it has caught up with her at last, she cannot help it, she is dying of pain for me, and moodily, he wished that he had ended this when he still could have found the implements to do so, for now he was a burden to her, and he wished more than anything not to be that to her.
He heard her later, crying, and wished that he might dry her tears, that he might somehow tell her that it would be all right, but it wouldn’t be, never again; he was not a man, simply an encumbrance, and their marriage was as well. He would tell her that he would divorce her- pain struck him at the thought of it- and that she would have her life back. He would hire someone for himself- surely his parents could see to it; they could find someone who would not rob him blind, and who would care for him, or care at least for the money he would pay them, he thought cynically, for no man cares for his fellow, only for his fellow’s pocketbook. And with this thought in mind he was silent, and waited for her, to tell her.
They were in bed. She had cuddled up beside him and perhaps thought him asleep. “I will divorce you, if you wish it,” he said, and the words sounded curt and formal, and harsh, more harsh than he had wished them to be. “I will divorce you,” he said more softly, “this is no life for you,” but he was stopped with the touch of a finger to his lips, and then her mouth, salty and sweet beneath his, and her tongue, playing upon his lips. He uttered a soft sigh and felt her face, the hard, pert chin; his finger grazed an ear and the strands of hair beside it. He allowed his hand to rest on her hair, to run through it, strands of exquisite softness that in his memory recalled themselves to him as gold, and he felt her undressing him, and putting his clothes aside, so that they might lie skin to skin, and flesh to flesh.
The warmth of her! The incredible warmth; it was as though her skin blazed with light, and he felt her turn, so that he caressed her back, his fingers exploratory pads upon the ridges and planes of her shoulders, her spine, the curve of her buttocks. He reached his hand beneath her hair to find her neck, kissed it through her hair, and felt her body respond; she shivered. A touch, then; he had never realized the power of a touch as he did now. He did not kiss but simply moved his lips from the tips of her fingers up one arm, till he reached the shoulder; it was gentle. He felt the growing hairs upon her arm and smiled to imagine them, each growing hair follicle upon that arm was his. He reached her shoulder with his mouth and took hold of her waist between his hands. She placed his hand upon her breast; he circled it, only now becoming aware of her in a new and different way. He reached her nipple and flicked it with a practiced hand, and became aware once again of the way it hardened to his touch, so that he lowered his mouth to her and felt her moan with desire, and he felt himself again to be a man.
There were tears in his eyes, but they were tears of exaltation, as though he had discovered something more mysterious and beautiful than anything he had ever known. He learned her body anew, felt it tighten and tauten beneath him, felt her relaxation, her ease. He nuzzled her to him, played her with his fingers, caressed her with his hands and mouth. He felt her turn to him with desire, felt her fingers in his hair, heard her murmur words low and intoxicating, “I love you,” she said, and then later, stronger, just as passionately and just as committed, when both were in a golden haze, having satisfied the desires of the body, “I love you,” and he held her closer to him in the darkness, and felt that he had been touched by a little of what was beautiful in the world.
He learned her shape, her curves, her fingers, her toes. He fell wildly in love with the little hollow at her throat, which he nuzzled with his mouth and touched with his hands, and he learned, too, what torturous joy the hands could inflict. His hands skimmed her as though she were a pond of water, and he creating ripples, or pressed as he increasingly demanded of her and she gave unflinchingly, willingly, with desire and a little awe. His hands touched fleetingly or rested in one spot. He could feel the little scar upon her back- an upraised piece that was surprisingly smooth, smoother even than her skin. This too he worshipped with his body, even as he worshipped all of her, her skin, her eyes, her face and hair. Their bodies entwined to mimic their souls, which rested peacefully, cocooned together in a nest of light and darkness. And he learned that he was not blind after all, when he had the capacity still to give to her, and he learned too that she loved him. He was attentive to every sound she made, each whimper or murmur, every cry, uplifted and sanctified, as though she were an angel, but a human angel, one who was created for him, to save him and love him even though he was not worthy, and would never understand from what depths of the soul she was able to come to him still, and not find him repulsive or repugnant.
“Your eyes,” at last she whispered, “your beautiful eyes,” and she lightly danced her fingers on the lids, so as to have him flutter them open. He saw only darkness but he felt her tense; she was crying now. “They are so beautiful, still,” she said, “if only you could see them. They are green, but there are ripples of blue, and grey, and one would not know you cannot see. I am so sorry,” she said at last, and he thought his heart was break. She was sorry? She, who had every cause to turn against him, to rail against their misfortune, to save herself and run from him; she was sorry?
“I do not know what I deserve,” he said thickly, “but it is not this—“ and he motioned in an effort to encapsulate her and all that she was.
“I know, darling,” she said very softly, “you do not deserve this,” and he realized she had misunderstood him, and thought he was referring to his blindness.
“No,” he said strongly, clearly, “that was not what I meant. It is you I am speaking of- I do not know what madness it was that made you accept me that June, I only know that I was blessed, and that I am blessed- to have you in my life. And that this has only made me see it clearer,” he motioned to his eyes, “I have loved you always, but I do not know if I have ever known you as clearly as I know you in this moment.”
He could feel her wish to say something, to protest, to tell him it was of no import, but he did not let her; he merely cradled her closer, and nestled together, they slept.
~
Credits: Blindness by Jose Saramago, "The Fountain" soundtrack
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