The Curious Jew

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Fear and Love of God

(for my Mother)

love

~Deuteronomy 6:5

fear

~Deuteronomy 8:6

fear

love

~Deuteronomy 10: 12-13

We are often taught, in grade school, the different levels of love and fear through which man can approach God, his creator. We are often given a list like this:

1. Fear of punishment
2. Fear of God
3. Love of God

Fear of punishment is therefore the lowest level through which we can approach God. It is a man cowering before a stronger man's whip, a man fearful, not of offending God or of alienating himself from Him, but of His wrath and anger, the punishments and plagues He can visit upon you. It is man afraid of the physical consequences, of the punishments that will strip him of land and food and the comforts of his life.

The next two levels are considered the loftier levels, the ones that are harder to attain, the ones that are more powerful and more difficult. Fear is often translated as 'Awe' suggesting a kind of fear, not of God's power to hurt, but a realization and appreciation of God's splendor and grandeur, perhaps the kind of view where one approaches God as God of the Cosmos, God of Creation, God who is so grand and powerful as to command the respect of myriads, God to whom I appear an infinitesmal speck.

And then there is Love of God. Love is translated in many different ways. Rashi explains love of God by differentiating it from fear. He states, "You are to obey His words (commands) because of your love [for Him]. There is no comparison between one who obeys out of love and one who obeys out of fear. He who obeys (serves) his master out of fear, should the master over burden him, he will leave him and go away" (Metsudah translation). When I learned this portion, I recall being taught that God does not command emotions in the Torah. This is one of the frequently-mentioned points in regard to honoring one's father and mother- one is not commanded to love one's father and mother but to honor them, and the idea of honoring is given specific halakhic obligations. So too, "love" and similar verbage in the Torah do not actually denote emotional states of being, but rather halakhic obligations. Therefore, the idea with "loving" God is not synonymous with an emotional state of being, but rather with the halakhic obligations of keeping his commands and serving Him.

Sifri offers another explanation, stating, "Davar acheir- another explanation- love of God refers to love for all the creations, like Abraham our forefather of whom it is said, "And the souls that he made in Haran." The explanation for this, Sifri continues, is that Avraham our forefather converted these people and helped them to enter beneath the wings of the Shekhina. This approach is helpful to those people who want a practical understanding of loving God, to love God is to love His creations.

Perhaps the most interesting thing about fear and love of God is that they are not mutually exclusive. Generally, one thinks of fear or awe coming from the perspective of man caught in the cosmos, man looking at the impossible grandeur of the world and seeing himself as the tiny speck that he is. Love, on the other hand, is often (although not always) allied to a feeling of importance in that you and another person or being have formed a personal connection, a connection in which you feel valued and loved as well. To love God generally suggests a personal perspective, the perspective of the individual feeling close to God, feeling as though he is a valued, necessary part of the world, someone who matters, and hence someone who can love God. How can one simultaneously see God of the Cosmos and God of the Individual? It seems impossible! And yet it appears that it can be done.

If you look to the Bible itself, you will notice that passages mentioning fear of God abound, while passages describing love of God are relatively few (and it's very interesting that the very first commandment gives as justification fear of punishment- do not eat of the Tree of Knowledge, lest thou shalt die.)

FEAR OF GOD
(I am not listing all of the references, only enough to prove the point)

1. יא וַיֹּאמֶר, אַבְרָהָם, כִּי אָמַרְתִּי רַק אֵין-יִרְאַת אֱלֹהִים, בַּמָּקוֹם הַזֶּה; וַהֲרָגוּנִי, עַל-דְּבַר אִשְׁתִּי.
And Abraham said: 'Because I thought: Surely the fear of God is not in this place; and they will slay me for my wife's sake. (Genesis 20:11)

2.יב וַיֹּאמֶר, אַל-תִּשְׁלַח יָדְךָ אֶל-הַנַּעַר, וְאַל-תַּעַשׂ לוֹ, מְאוּמָה: כִּי עַתָּה יָדַעְתִּי, כִּי-יְרֵא אֱלֹהִים אַתָּה, וְלֹא חָשַׂכְתָּ אֶת-בִּנְךָ ... 12 And he said: 'Lay not thy hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him; for now I know that thou art a God-fearing man, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son, from Me.' (Genesis 22:12)

3.מב לוּלֵי אֱלֹהֵי אָבִי אֱלֹהֵי אַבְרָהָם וּפַחַד יִצְחָק, הָיָה לִי--כִּי עַתָּה, רֵיקָם שִׁלַּחְתָּנִי; אֶת-עָנְיִי וְאֶת-יְגִיעַ כַּפַּי, רָאָה אֱלֹהִים--וַיּוֹכַח אָמֶשׁ. Except the God of my father, the God of Abraham, and the Fear of Isaac, had been on my side, surely now hadst thou sent me away empty. God hath seen mine affliction and the labour of my hands, and gave judgment yesternight.' (Genesis 31: 42)

4.יח וַיֹּאמֶר אֲלֵהֶם יוֹסֵף בַּיּוֹם הַשְּׁלִישִׁי, זֹאת עֲשׂוּ וִחְיוּ; אֶת-הָאֱלֹהִים, אֲנִי יָרֵא.
18 And Joseph said unto them the third day. 'This do, and live; for I fear God: (Genesis 42: 18)

5.יז וַתִּירֶאןָ הַמְיַלְּדֹת, אֶת-הָאֱלֹהִים, וְלֹא עָשׂוּ, כַּאֲשֶׁר דִּבֶּר אֲלֵיהֶן מֶלֶךְ מִצְרָיִם; וַתְּחַיֶּיןָ, אֶת-הַיְלָדִי
17 But the midwives feared God, and did not as the king of Egypt commanded them, but saved the men-children alive. (Exodus 1: 17)

6.ל וְאַתָּה, וַעֲבָדֶיךָ: יָדַעְתִּי--כִּי טֶרֶם תִּירְאוּן, מִפְּנֵי יְהוָה אֱלֹהִים.
But as for thee and thy servants, I know that ye will not yet fear the LORD God.'-- (Exodus 9:30)

7.כא וְאַתָּה תֶחֱזֶה מִכָּל-הָעָם אַנְשֵׁי-חַיִל יִרְאֵי אֱלֹהִים, אַנְשֵׁי אֱמֶת--שֹׂנְאֵי בָצַע; וְשַׂמְתָּ עֲלֵהֶם, שָׂרֵי אֲלָפִים שָׂרֵי מֵאוֹת, שָׂרֵי חֲמִשִּׁים, וְשָׂרֵי עֲשָׂרֹת.
Moreover thou shalt provide out of all the people able men, such as fear God, men of truth, hating unjust gain; and place such over them, to be rulers of thousands, rulers of hundreds, rulers of fifties, and rulers of tens. (Exodus 18: 21)

8.טז וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה אֶל-הָעָם, אַל-תִּירָאוּ, כִּי לְבַעֲבוּר נַסּוֹת אֶתְכֶם, בָּא הָאֱלֹהִים; וּבַעֲבוּר, תִּהְיֶה יִרְאָתוֹ עַל-פְּנֵיכֶם--לְבִלְתִּי תֶחֱטָאוּAnd Moses said unto the people: 'Fear not; for God is come to prove you, and that His fear may be before you, that ye sin not.' (Exodus 20: 16)

9.יז וְלֹא תוֹנוּ אִישׁ אֶת-עֲמִיתוֹ, וְיָרֵאתָ מֵאֱלֹהֶיךָ: כִּי אֲנִי יְהוָה, אֱלֹהֵיכֶם.
And ye shall not wrong one another; but thou shalt fear thy God; for I am the LORD your God. (Leviticus 25: 17)

For more references, see here.

There are two points to be made about fear of God (based on these examples.)

1. Gentiles/ Non-Jews are completely capable of fearing God. We see this because Avimelech is said to have "no fear of God," Pharoah is said not to fear God, and Joseph, while still masquerading as an Egyptian viceroy, claims that he does fear God. This is one of the reasons that Ibn Ezra explains that the Midwives, later on, were not necessarily Jewish (he claims they were Egyptian, contrary to our usual grade-school Shifra-Puah theme.) His point, and it is very valid, is that fear of God is not definably a Jewish characteristic, but rather one that is necessary for all.

2. Fear of God is most often used as a deterrant of sin. Abraham sees that there is no "fear of God" in Abimelech's kingdom, therefore he surmises (correctly) that people are not afraid to murder. Frequently in Leviticus, the words "fear God" are linked to sins which one might deem minor, insignificant, or think one could easily commit. The words "fear God" remind that even though man may not have the power to oppose you (say, regarding the man who is ruthlessly ruling as a tyrant), God can and will.

Now, if I am correct, the idea of loving God is first mentioned in Deuteronomy. We have mention of the love a wife bears a husband (by Sarai, when Abraham requests her to lie to save his life), the love a father bears a son (by Isaac), the fact that God has the capacity to love, the command to love another as yourself, specifically the convert. But the first place where one is told he must love God is Deuteronomy.

A suggestion- perhaps this has to do with the change of generations in Deuteronomy. God redeems and rescues, initially, a generation of slaves. These men are indebted to Him, certainly, but they have been raised as slaves. Some of them may believe they are merely changing alleigance from one master over to another. Some of them are distrustful, sly, thankful for their good fortune but certain that there has to be a catch. For people who are so disillusioned, who have led such hard lives, perhaps the concept of actually loving their redeemer would be difficult. First they have to adjust. They have to grow accustomed to this God. Does He want to take advantage of them? Does He want what is in their best interest? Or does He simply want them to serve, yet again? They are distrustful, most of Exodus describes the many stories in which they display their distrust of God and want to return to the familiar, to life in Egypt. They were enslaved, but they had food, they had fish, they had masters they could understand and see, not this invisible cosmic force. Love must grow; it is based off of trust. Slowly, perhaps, as these slaves learn to trust God, learn that He is there for them, will protect and defend them, slowly as trust grows, they can learn to love God. But initially, the concept would be impossible, and hence, I suggest, it was not introduced. Indeed, even at the very end, by the sin of the spies, the spies sabotage God's efforts, badmouthing the land He gives them. Why is this? There are various explanations and interpretations, some describing the deaths they see (which God provides as a diversion) and their misunderstanding of these events. But perhaps they were still caught, trapped, by the slave mentality from whence they came. Perhaps they had to sabotage themselves, perhaps the land of Israel was so beautiful as to be a dream, a dream they knew they could not have. They were afraid of the role they would have to play, upright conquerors, heroes, men of war. How could they do this? They were slaves! And so they sabotage themselves, self-destruct, and the generation dies out. You notice, throughout their journey, that it is members of the tribe of Levi who are able to act as capable leaders, to accurately report on the Land. This is because they were not slaves, and hence were not caught up in that mentality. I think it is Ramban who states that the first generation had to die in the desert because they were trapped by this mentality.

But the second generation- ah! Well, the second generation has been weaned on miracles. Food falls mysteriously from the sky. A pillar of cloud leads them by day, a fire by night. There is a magnificent Temple in which God resides. The Aron before them razes mountains to the ground. This second generation has beheld God's magnificence and grandeur; they have learned to trust God. And so, it is logical that this is the generation that can love God. This is the generation to whom the concept of loving God can be introduced. Fear is certainly mentioned as well, as fear is the great deterrant, but love, love based on trust- they are capable of this, at last. Deuteronomy allows it to them.

And so we come to love.

Now, which approach is necessarily better? How are we to describe the different approaches?

With thanks to the wonderful Rabbi Mordechai Torczyner, we may begin.

The Talmud states:

Berachot 33b

The concept is also brought up in Megillah 25a.

Another statement in Berachot:

Berachot 17a

Abaye therefore states that it is important to find new ways and different paths in which to fear God.

We see in Sukkah 49b that God's kindness washes over those who fear Him.

ת"ל (תהילים לו) מה יקר חסדך אלהים <חסד ה' מלאה הארץ> וגו' יכול אף ירא שמים כן ת"ל (תהילים קג) וחסד ה' מעולם ועד עולם על יראיו

Men given a type of grace/ favor are those who fear God:
א"ר חמא בר פפא כל אדם שיש עליו חן בידוע שהוא ירא שמים שנא' חסד ה' מעולם ועד עולם על יראיו

How does one serve God? By emulating Him.

Shabbath 133b

The concept is also brought up in Sotah 14a:

And so we see examples of service and fear of God.

Returning to the prime statement, that of fear of God, and Moses' intimation that it is a small thing to do, in which regard the Rabbis state, "Yes; for Moses it was a small thing; as R. Hanina said: To illustrate by a parable, if a man is asked for a big article and he has it, it seems like a small article to him; if he is asked for a small article and he does not possess it, it seems like a big article to him," I now turn to Nechama Leibowitz.

First she states that Moses was very humble/ unassuming, citing Numbers 12:3, which suggests that he was not conscious of his own superiority, and therefore unaware that "for him [it was] but a small matter, [but] would demand from the rest of the people extroardinary spiritual exertions." However, she then turns to Ramban/ Nachmanides, who explains the meaning of fear of God as indicating a minimum demand. He believes that fear of God must be understood in terms of the words "for thy good." Nachama continues that "the severity of any demand corresponds to the extent of the sacrifice involved. The fear and love demanded by God involve no sacrifice or surrender of man's part of his own true interests. It is thus but a small thing to ask man to do something which is in his own genuine interest." (Leibowitz from Studies in Devarim, page 100)

She then cites a fascinating approach, that of Joseph Albo, quoting from his Sefer Ha-ikkarim. Albo explains that the aim of the soul in performing the commandments of the Torah is to develop a "disposition to fear God" which will be permanent. Fear, in his view, is "the noblest disposition for man to acquire, nor can it be acquired except after great pains and effort." He uses Abraham as an example, noting that Abraham is only called God-fearing upon the completion of his trials, but not before. He then interprets the passage in question:

required degree of fear, love and service with all his heart and soul

merely

Albo explains that God "demands of us the fulfillment of His will in daily acts, in the grey routine of our 24 hour living. It is the latter which will gradually lead us to the higher plane of fear."

Fear of heaven, Nachama concludes, is inextricably linked to free will on a whole. In the same way that fear of heaven is not in God's hands, hence the use of the word "ask" (what does God ask of you, not command), so too, she states, citing Rambam's Code, Teshuvah 5, 1-3, "Free will is granted to every man. If he desires to follow the good path and be righteous, he is free to do so, and if he desires to follow an evil one and be wicked, he is likewise free to do so...This constitutes a fundamental principle and pillar of the Torah and its precepts..the Creator does not force His will on any man, nor pre-ordain him to do good or evil, but everything is entrusted to him" (the quote is a direct translation of the Hebrew, not Nachama's paraphrase.)

The Rav also quotes Maimonides, describing how one comes to love God. Now that we have discussed fear in depth, it is appropriate to discuss love:

Reflections of the Rav vol 1,

He continues:

dvekut

(Reflections of the Rav vol 1

Love is then an experience, transmitted by contact with others who are lovesick for God. It is not a logical rational approach toward God so much as an ecstatic, passionate response.

The Rav often writes of our "romance with the Creator." He speaks of different Gods in that God appears in different ways- He is high and lofty, Creator, Owner, and Guardian of the Universe, but then He is also the God who appears in the night and comforts the bereaved, the God who is close and kind. He writes of man's capacity for prophecy, and how fulfilling that capacity is fulfilling the highest potential of man. Prophecity mandates a true connection with God; for a person to attain prophecy means that he has attained the qualities necessary for prophecy. The Rav often writes of different ways of teaching; one can teach intellectual thoughts, theories, and halakha, but there is also the transfusion of color and vibrance, experience and emotion to religion, and this comes about through experience, not words.

Perhaps fear of God walks hand in hand with the halakhic personality. The halakhic personality understands commands, statements, intricacies, logic. The halakhic personality understands consequences. He has a rational, analytical mindset; the kind of mindset that can easily relate to God of the Cosmos, the kind of mind that can evaluate and remain in awe of God. The halakhic personality feels emotion, no doubt, but perhaps it is more natural for him to feel awe.

The personality of the homo religiosus, then, in contrast, that personality which goes on flights of fancy, transcendence, rapture, emotional highs and lows, is probably more equipped to feel love for God as a norm, and to work on developing awe and fear. The homo religiosus is so caught up in the magical and mystical that it is only natural that he should love God, but to fear him and feel the awe He commands may perhaps be harder.

That is my suggestion; I do not know if it is true or may be supported by the ideas of others.

It is made clear that fear and love work together, the two words are combined in the question Moses asks. It does not suffice to have one or the other; we must strive for both. We strive to keep the commandments, and in so doing to reap the gains we would acquire had we reached the lofty state of awe of God. We emulate God and so serve Him. Insomuch as we strive, God helps us. And love of God, our personal love for Him through knowledge and trust, comes into being steadily and slowly, growing as we too grow.

I find it easier to visualize God as a personal God. A God who is interested in what I have to say, a God with whom I may be completely honest; a God who knows all my faults and the reasons that I do the things I do- or refrain from doing what I ought to do. I find it easier to visualize a God to whom I matter, a God who loves me, and hence a God I can love, or be angry with, or hate, or speak to, in return. This may be because I am female, or perhaps it is because I love words and magic and mysteries, stories and color, and I find all this in a relationship with God. I know that I don't often contemplate God in His grandeur, as the prospect frightens me. How could one person matter to God the Judge, God of the Cosmos? It is harder for me to see, and hence it is not natural for me to fear God, per se. I prefer to smile up at Him like a mischievous child, to dance about, to watch Him watching me. It is easier for me to see God as a parent, a just parent, certainly, a parent who demands I take responsibility for my actions and transgressions, but still a parent. I know there must be people who find it easier to view God from afar, view God as Master, Commander, Ruler. I have trouble with this.

But as the two approaches are melded together, and one necessarily complements the other, I hope to join them together one day! Love and fear, fear and love, different approaches to service and knowledge of God- both of them valid, and both beautiful.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Teachers as Sexual Predators

(picture copyrighted to Scott Menchin)

Due to the recent uproar in the blogosphere about the Kolko case and others of its genre, I was surprised, and to some extent relieved (though of course I do not want this type of hurt to befall anyone), to read this article in the Reader's Digest.

It appears from this article that it is not only the Orthodox Jewish world that suffers from attempts to sweep teacher's misdemeanors or offenses under the rugs.

A couple interesting quotes include:

1. Explanation of the Rationale- "you don't want to pass problems on to other schools, but at the same time, you weigh that against what you can say that might cause litigation for your school too"

2. Some numbers- "In 2004, a U.S. Department of Education study found that nearly 10 percent of public school students have endured unwanted sexual attention from school employees, and close to 7 percent had experienced actual sexual contact -- anything from pinching to kissing to outright molestation."

3. A Trend- "Appalling settlements like this aren't unusual. In many cases, the first priority of school districts is to avoid expensive battles with unions and the bad headlines that can come with legal action. So they'll let an accused teacher resign quietly, sometimes with a financial settlement. Since 2000, West Virginia schools, for example, have reportedly paid nearly $7 million in settlements to suspected sexual predators."

Monday, January 01, 2007

My Magical Birthday- with Love to the World!

Some people wonder what a perfect day is like.

But I've lived a perfect day.

So I'll tell you what it's like.

It begins at midnight, the very stroke as the clock touches twelve, and it becomes December 31st. Two people simultaneously call me, one my friend from Israel, the other from New York, to wish me a happy birthday. Several people write on my Facebook wall, and others message me. It is midnight; it is December 31st. The fun has begun.

My friend, whom I haven't seen in quite a while, came over for dinner and brought me beautiful white and pink flowers on December 30th, alongside a lovely 'Happy Birthday 'card. I was up pretty late, and discovered one of my favorite videos before I went to sleep. I watched this video several times, because it's mine; it's about my month and Josh Groban sings it (far better than Linkin Park ever could.) So here's that:

All right, very good. I wake up in the morning. I have made a habit since I was very little of creeping down the stairs to see the decorations and the presents piled on the table. I creep down the stairs- and- nothing! No decorations, no presents, absolutely nothing. I was pretty sad.

My mother informs me that I should come with her to the mall to get a haircut. I am in a miserable mood. I get the haircut, and am slightly happier, and then do my best to avoid being forced to buy a balloon. My mother, however, claims it is imperative that I stop by American Greetings to buy a balloon, which is a rather trying occupation. Finally, equipped with a Mickey-Mouse balloon (my more sophisticated choice, with celestial underpinnings, is unfortunately out of stock) I grimly make for the car.

And then we come to our house.

And someone opens the door.

Presto! There are 'Happy Birthday' signs everywhere. Balloon decorations everywhere. I am serenaded by my father, sister and brothers. My father plays violin, my sister piano, and the boys play drums/ violin. They're all playing 'Happy Birthday' which quite literally makes my day. I look at the dining room table and see that it is covered in presents of varying sizes and shapes, and that rose petals are strewn everywhere. It's absolutely gorgeous.

(Ha! So my mother hadn't lost her senses when she forced me to buy a balloon. That was merely a stalling tactic! Ha!)

I ask them to play the 'Star Wars' theme for me afterwards and they oblige.

Frantic scramble for the digital camera ensues. And then comes the opening of my presents.

The first piece I open is a beautiful framed picture of Belle and the Beast. It's utterly gorgeous, and I laugh out loud delightedly.

Then the present my sister bought me, a grey Wicked sweatshirt.

Then the boys' presents, Starbucks cards (for New York.) You have to understand that they bought this with their own money, which makes the gift that much greater.

Then my father, who has cleverly decided to get me The Kuzari in English (as I'll be taking the course next semester.)

Earrings from Zales, gold and silver and cleverly designed. Pomegranate shower gel from Ulta. Various books from my mother. Clothing from one of my favorite stores, The Buckle. Lip gloss in various colors.

This is insanity.

After the required period of time, we break our fast on a light repast. Then I open the rest of the gifts. Glittering clothing and dazzling shirts. Aqua shower gel. More books, some evil and dark and others hilarious. I am laughing and laughing and unable to stop.

And then I'm informed that my parents are taking me to Shallots. Not just me, but the whole family. In honor of my eighteenth birthday.

This is the Shallots. The famous, glorious Shallots, the most expensive, amazing, wonderful kosher restaraunt in all of Chicago. That Shallots. Yes, that Shallots.

And they're taking me there. And they've purchased an outfit for me to wear. And I can't even understand all of this. So we assemble ourselves and put together the required clothes and take pictures and then we are out-

Into the ambience. The votive candles, the dim lighting, the French cuisine, the juicy steaks. Ah, yes. The steaks.

And my family, whom I love, my brothers being clever and witty and sweet, and my sister, who has developed a sarcastic streak of dry wit in my absence. The steaks, the appetizers, the entrees...and the desserts.

Because you see, I thought that I wasn't going to have a cake. So I figured I would order dessert from Shallots, and that would be it. And so we ordered desserts.

The first dessert was mine. It is something Shallots is famous for, called 'The Black Hat.' Mine was presented to me as a bomb with the fuse lit. The candle was inside a scoop of Sorbet. The cake is a gooey confection of chocolate goodness. Or, to put it officially, "Belgian chocolate cake, sorbetof the season (baked to order) with a liquid center."

and my brother had this exciting dessert:

My sister went for chocolate pecan pie:

And my last brother decided on The Trio Sorbet:

He was very pleased with the gin glass.

But here's the most INSANE part of the evening...I come back home, bursting with joy and thanks and feeling completely overwhelmed by the kindness of my parents and family.

And then...and then...

I find out I have a cake.

But not just any cake.

A 'Beauty and the Beast' themed cake. Made by Sarelle.

Yes, that Sarelle. The fantastic artist Sarelle, whose cakes grace wedding halls and bar mitzvahs alike. That Sarelle. My cake is apparently titled 'Enchanted in Chocolate.' It's a decadent fudge cake. So I'm informed.

(Look HERE for a bigger picture)

See the rose? See the mirror? Look at the base of the mirror and you'll see that it says 'Chana.' Look above and you'll see it says '18.' And then look at the gorgeous gold gothic lettering.

THIS IS INSANITY!

Was ever any child so completely and utterly happy? Were ever any parents kinder, nicer, and more interested in spoiling said child?

If I knew how to thank my parents, I would, but I don't even have the words.

If I knew how to thank my sisters and brothers...not even for their gifts, but for all the thoughtfulness that went into the gifts...I would, but all I can give them are helpless glances as I gaze up at them in a kind of semi-delusional state of awe.

I truly want to thank all my friends for calling, or writing me emails, or leaving me messages, or (to my fellow bloggers) for participating with such enthusiam and imagination in my Masquerade Ball! And now, if you would, Masquers, I bid you unmask. You've done a thoroughly good job of confounding me, and I have no idea who anybody is!

I'm utterly, utterly happy, and it's wonderful to go to sleep in such a euphoric mood.

Thank you, everybody. I love you all.

Sunday, December 31, 2006

Huzzah! I am 18.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Last year, upon my birthday, I held a Masquerade on the blogs. I told everyone to sign in as an Anonymous person without linking to their webpages and give themselves intriguing names, to describe their 'costumes' as it were, and to explain their presents. Last year I was offered a crystal rose and other beautiful gems.

As I don't know everyone who comments here, I shan't be as adept at guessing whom it is who dons a particular 'costume,' as it were, but it would be lovely if some of you would attend me in the comments and join my newest Masquerade ball. (And perhaps, if I truly can't guess, you can come back later and tell me who you are.)

Things I don't plan on doing upon turning 18:

a) Getting tattoos and piercings
b) Smoking
c) Yes, even smoking hookah
d) Going to Canada/ Israel and drinking

Things I do plan on doing upon turning 18:

a) Getting a Lord and Taylor card!
b) Perhaps voting

And what does it mean to turn eighteen? What is the significance of the age?

Well, I am now informed of its significance.

The ones I think are most fitting:

a) Eighteen is a rich experience
b) Eighteen is the bloggage of me
c) Eighteen is a story

I look forward to some very rich descriptions of costumes (yes, you're all attending my Masquerade) and some creative wishes.

Monday, December 25, 2006

Why do we blog?

I know this is an old topic, an oft-discussed topic. Why do we blog? Why are we here?

I was thinking through it, and I believe I have reached an answer.

We are all human. And to some extent, we all need something. We need friends when we are down, comfort when we despair, someone to tell us to straighten up and accept responsibility for our mistakes. We need approbation, condemnation and flattery. We need all these things in different amounts. We need a community.

Blogging simulates this relationship in the community. It is, therefore, a tool.

Even those blogs which distance themselves from personal relations, instead choosing to give over certain developed stances or information, rely upon their having an audience. There is no actor without an audience, no player without a play. We are nobody without one another. We live in a void, and tell ourselves that we like it there, but we know we don't.

The problem is, in the real community, the physical community of flesh and blood, we can't let down our guard. We cannot be so honest. We cannot admit mistakes. We have our pride, our stature and status, our children, our families. Oftentimes, we refuse to grow- in public.

So here we create these private worlds. You would not know me if I did not choose to let you know me. I am the one in control, and that makes me comfortable. If anything becomes too intense, if something pushes me out of my comfort zone, then I stop. I can close the computer screen, I can think about it, talk about it with others. And I learn how to express myself. Learn what I think, those principles that are essential to my survival, and the ones I can learn to release, the ones I can give up and change based on what I now see.

There are different stages to blogs and to their meaning for us. We begin with whatever we need most at the time. I began (most truly) with Silvergleam. That was my secular blog. I had the approval, warm regard and kindness of others. It was a place to feel safe. I had people who would force me to think, but did so in a truly kind manner. I knew not to feel threatened. I knew we were all friends.

But then I ventured into the Jewish blog-world. That was after the destruction of ModBlog, of my old place, of all the writings I had posted there. Things are not safe here. Tempers run high. People yell, scream, shout. People disagree, and they are disagreeing about the most important things- ideas. They are disagreeing about ideas, values, priorities, outlooks on life. We are not discussing stories here. This is not my alternate escape-world. We are discussing personal values, ideas that matter to us. Letting them go means recreating ourselves.

At first, I was angry. At the very first, all my thoughts were expressed in anger. I was anti-this, anti-that. I was very negative. I hated everything. I mocked those who didn't agree with me.

And then I received some sharp criticism, which I didn't take very well. But better, I began to think. I met those people I needed to meet, the ones who could guide me while allowing me to think I was choosing all that I chose on my own. These were the people who led me to the paths I wanted to take, but did not force me on them.

And I began to realize- at the same time that I began to appreciate North Shore for what it was- that I was not merely anti-Templars. I did not merely define myself by what I hated and disliked. I was pro-something. I had a vision, a vision of the world as it could be, as we should be. I had things I aspired to, beliefs I wanted to share with others. There was good to be found in everything, in everyone, and I had to learn to search for it. Not merely to see the negatives, the negatives that blinded me, but to look beyond. To see what people hid behind their angry faces and upset comments. To realize that what I believed I meant and what was truly conveyed were not the same.

I learned that there are some things I cannot change. I learned there are certain things that set me off, that I cannot be a part of. There are certain things that make my mind whirl, that bring me back to a time I cannot forgive. And so I cannot be around those people, those things.

I learned, too, that there are some things I can change. I see it as I myself change. I am still negative, this I do not deny. But not to the extent I was. I do not define myself by what I am not, but by what I am. What I mean to do. Who I mean to be. We are looking for the good; we are the truth-seekers. We are uplifted by our search.

That is why not all of us are here for the same length of time. Some of us need to blog because it is a way to release our problems to a kind and supportive community. Some of us need to blog because it gives us the power kick we never had as children, when we were loners, hated, rejected. That is not a healthy kind of blogging. It is not being part of the community, but drawing away from it. People learn that, or they receive comments they feel are hurtful, respond in kind, and descend into the maelstrom. Cycles never work very well.

Some of us blog because our supposedly real lives are different from the people we are in truth. We are the orthoprax, perhaps. Or the skeptics. And we need support; we need support-groups. We need others to confirm that we exist. And we need the strength, perhaps, one day, to be ourselves as we truly are.

We are here for as long as we need to be here, for as long as we still grow. Alternatively, we are here because we are part of the whirlpool, caught in an ugly cycle that will not let us go.

We are here as flawed individuals. We are honest. We put ourselves forward without masks. Oh, perhaps we wear them initially, but after a time we let them go. It is scary to do this. No one knows what others will think of you. Perhaps they will hate you. Perhaps they will be cruel, make hurtful comments, see you as you truly are and laugh in disdain.

And we do it anyway.

We are brave. We learn to be brave. We learn to tear off the masks, the attempts to be other people. We start that way, perhaps. I know I did, with a different blog, at a different time. I was discovered, and told to act as I truly was, to be who I was, not to lie or pretend, even for the sake of a joke. I took that advice after initially acting in a fashion I don't like to remember. And I have grown from it.

What you see is what you get.

Hello.

I'm Chana.

This is who I am. To the best of my knowledge, I am the same on this blog and in person. There are no lies, no mysteries, masks, pretenses. Oh, it's scary to be so honest. But the rewards are far greater. Because imagine- people like you as you are. People like you, your real self, not the falsities you devise. People like you with your flaws and your good traits, like you for all that you are. If they do not like you, then at least they respect you.

When you stop hiding.

So come out of hiding, folks. We're ready for the game.

Bring it on.

Sunday, December 24, 2006

The Sea-Witch

Disclaimer: This is a story based on this version of The Twelve Dancing Princesses. This version has the most beautiful pictures I have ever seen.
~

You know about Lina and Michael.

Michael betrayed our secret. He told the King about our adventures, told him about the secret trapdoor, the staircase that led us to the worlds beyond. He told him of the three woods, the one of gold, of silver, and of emeralds. He presented him with the twigs he’d broken off, the beautiful nosegay that spelled our doom. He was the one who proudly informed the king that he’d released us from enchantment, and chose Lina as his bride.

Oh yes, you know about Lina and Michael.

The Twelve Dancing Princesses, that is what we were called. The most beautiful maidens in the land, fair and delicate, each sweeter and lovelier than the next. We all differed one from the other, none of us sharing the same hair color or complexion. The deepest gold or purest white-blonde; each shade differing in its vivid hue, its great beauty. We were the fairest in the land, the realm, queens all.

We refused to be married off, to be given to those we did not desire. We found our princes and bewitched them, lived a double life. Perhaps we were deceptive. Is it not in the nature of women to be so? We were clever, sly, cunning, deceptive. We were beautiful. Every simpering dolt would look into our beautiful faces and instantly do our bidding.

Except for Michael.

Oh, Michael thought himself quite the savior, and it must be said that Lina dotes on him. But he ruined our lives.

He broke the spell. He informed our father.

You know only one version of the story. You know that Lina, the youngest, wed Michael. You know they inherited the throne, and lived happily ever after.

But what of the rest of us?

What of me, the eldest? My name is Zara.

My hair is ebony black, and falls to my waist. My eyes are green as emeralds. My skin is pale, as pale as death. I have the kind of beauty that arrests and wounds, that strikes men down and bids them die for me. I have no softness, as Lina does. I have no romance. Some say I have no heart.

Those who say this do not know the story of my life. They do not know me. They know only how the story ended. They have heard it said that it was my idea, that I was the one who desired to enchant the princes, to have them forever under my sway. They have heard it whispered that I am a sorceress, an enchantress. It was their words that had me banished. I was cast out of the realm, thrown away by my romantic sister. It was the price of her marriage to Michael.

You see, Michael loved me first. There are some versions that survive where I am the chosen one, I, the eldest daughter. That is because of the love Michael had for me. It was only at the end, to spite me, that he chose to wed Lina, my sweet sister.

Oh, Michael was no savior. Michael was cruel, cruel to me and to all those who frightened him. He believes he has won.

He has not.

He rules us all, he thinks. He believes he has punished me, exiled me to realms of night and dark, the realm of horror and madness. He has forced me into the world of murders, the world of mortar and pestles, the world of Baba Yaga in all her wild madness. He has forced me into the darkness.

But there was a reason I was born a princess, born to be a queen.
There’s a reason I was born to rule.

And my laugh, my wild laughter, rings in his ears. He has Lina, in all her simpering sweet softness, her golden curves and bewitching laughter, but he does not have me., He does not have my obedience, my submission, my loyalty or my love. He has the pain he caused me, the revenge he took. And that, for him, is sweet.

He ruined our lives, all our lives. All this for the kingdom and a queen. All this for my father’s love. My father hates me now, believing Michael’s lies. My father believes me a traitor, a cruel sorceress. He curses my black hair, believes me the spawn of the devil. He swears he did not sire me.

Was ever any eldest child so cruelly treated?
But it matters not.

For it is my laughter that rings in their ears, my wild triumph that spites the dawn. It is my face he sees in the silvery coldness of the ,moon, my beauty that haunts his nights. He reaches for Lina when he truly desires me, and he curses me every day of his life. For nothing can take his soul from mine. I cast a powerful curse and called him to me. All his days he sees my ghost, whispering to him on the wind. My soul calls to him. He will go mad, eventually.

By that time, however, I will be dead.

This is the story of Zara, princess of the Twelve. Hear and be faithful, so that you may learn the true story of the twelve, learn of the darkness that near killed us all, that I saved us from. Hear, I command you; hear and do not judge. For you have not the right to judge me, I, Zara, princess of the twelve.

~

I was thirteen.

Thirteen and in the garden, a solemn, quiet creature. My eyes opened wide in curiosity and terror, but I had early learned to hide my thoughts. My queen mother was a venomous creature, obsessed with her own beauty and her jewels. Although all praised her on our behalf, she could not but hate us. She saw in us rivals for her husband’s attention, believing my father valued us more than he did she. She hated us all.

I was the oldest, and I learned this first.

She bruised me where others could not see. Cruel pinches or twists of my fingers. She would inflict little tortures upon me, take away my toys and playthings. She would never force me to do work, but she would take the people I loved, my maid Melissa most frequently, and would force them to do cruel work. It was many a time that I saw Melissa stumbling over the steps, carrying a bucket from which emanated fumes that turned her face red and chapped her hands. I knew my mother had deliberately poured an unnecessary potion into the water, and I could do nothing but stand on and watch, pretending to ignore her tortures, pretending not to be hurt by her lack of regard.

Should my mother catch sight of any suitor paying attention to me, any prince or would-be knight asking for my hand, a mere dance at a ball, she would be enraged. She would glide over and poisonously require my attention elsewhere. She spread rumors about me, claiming that I was a slut, a whore, an undeserving daughter. She claimed I threw myself at man as though I were no better than a common tramp. Her eyes would gleam golden with each venomous lie. The men looked at me in distaste, and instead started after her. Assured of her potent effect upon them once more, she swept away into the distance, raising her lovely fan, smelling of sweet scents and the richest perfumes.

I hated her.

Is it wrong to hate one’s mother? I cannot judge. I know only that she was deranged, unstable. There was no way I could love her. My father the king was madly in love with her, and always believed her over me. He could not understand her thinking me a rival for anyone’s attention, and even if I could have brought myself to hurt him by telling him of her desire for other men, he would not have believed me. I am sure he would have thought me a liar, perhaps even have banished me as she oft-insisted. I do not know whether she enchanted him, perhaps cast a love-charm upon him. I know only that I saw no refuge in him.

She continued to abuse me. She would flaunt her conquests before me, telling me in her sweet, bored voice of the men whom she had seduced. She threw them away before they could cause any damage to her reputation, but it made my blood boil to hear of it. She knew I hated her. She knew of my anger, of how I would have killed her to protect my father. She would taunt me with that knowledge. “Your father loves me,” she would mock. “You would hurt him more by killing me than letting me live.” I gritted my teeth and thought of ways, ways in which I could do away with her and make it seem an accident.

It was only me against whom she directed all her merciless tactics. The rest of her daughters she charmed. She turned them against me, making sure that they would never follow the oldest child. She knew I was the one who was most dangerous to her, being the wisest and cleverest, the slyest one of them all. The other eleven were clever enough, I suppose, but their wants were fewer and less threatening. Nosegays, pretty toys, gardens, presents and gifts sufficed for them. They were not of the age to attract suitors yet, and so she did not care about them.

But she made them hate me.

She would whisper in their ears, poisonous whispers. Adele believed that I was part-witch. “Her black silky hair,” my mother whispered to her, “it is the sign of a witch. You must always wear this charm I give you,” handing her an amulet in the shape of an eye, “to ward off her jealousy of you.” Adele, wide-eyed and beautiful with her auburn curls cascading down her shoulders, pinned the brooch to her dress and backed away from fear. Julianna outright laughed at me and my pitiful attempts to warn her against my mother. “I know how you envy her,” she said, tossing her golden tresses. “She told me of your attempt to seduce the stableboy, and how miserably you failed.” I fared no better with Iryna, Narcissa, Evana or the rest. Each one thought me mad or pitiful.

I would see my mother laughing with my sisters, see her brilliant red nails stroking their soft skin, and I would swear to kill her. Each time she smiled at me, a secret smile behind her fan, as she continued to win them over, to charm them, to win them with bribes and kisses, prizes and toys. It gave her pleasure, excited her almost, to see that I knew her in her true form, knew her as she truly was, but could do nothing to prevent her cruelties and obscenities.

Many a time I found her with one of her paramours or lovers. She did not think to hide them from me, knowing that I knew of her in all her evil. She would laugh at me as she lay with them, running her fingers through their silky hair. Always her secret smile, that smile that would drive me mad. I saw that smile and I swore, I swore that I would kill her. I knew that I would find a way.

But what was more important was to save my sisters. After a time, I was sure that one of them would attract a suitor my mother desired, a knight or a prince, someone highly-born, a royal nobleman. I did not know how far my mother’s envy would take her. If I could not kill her, then I must prevent it from happening, must hide them all away. I must save them from themselves. But how to do it? How to make them appear disinterested in all men, to think them beneath themselves, almost ridiculous? How to encourage them to dance to my tune?

The simplest way, of course, would be to kill my mother outright. I planned a way to do it. I slipped into her bedroom one night, thinking to place a poison in her facial creams. The next morning, as she applied it to her face, she would expire wordlessly, still beautiful, her skin unmarred. I crept to her dressing table, sorted through the jewels and gems littered across it until I found the unguent I wanted. I reached into the pocket of my filmy robe and removed the satchet of nightshade.

A mocking voice behind me. “What do you think you are doing, Zara?”

I whirled around. There was no one there. I turned back to the dressing table, and started in dismay. There, in the mirror, I saw my mother’s face. It was beautiful, though slightly distressed. I looked like her, a fact that I resented more than anything else. Her long black curls tumbled around her face in artful disarray. She wore a white negligee and smiled up at me in her mirror.

“I am not so easily poisoned,” she laughed. “Well, Zara?” The shadow of her crossed her arms in the mirror. “What do you mean to do?”

“I meant to kill you, Mother,” I answered honestly.

She laughed. “Oh, how amusing to have let you try! But I rather thought you might appreciate the warning.” Her voice turned nasty. “There is no way to outwit a sorceress of my power. Be warned. Next time I will not let you off so easy.”

The mirror glass turned milky-white, and she faded into shadow. I clenched my hands together tightly, then stood up to leave. I did not know what to do next.

It was the next day that I begged leave of my father. “Father, I am your successor,” I began. “I believe it is time that I see the realm, venture through it in order to learn of your people, your subjects. I desire to make a good Queen.”

He smiled at me benignly. “Of course, Zara.” He rumpled my hair as though I were still a child. “I trust you entirely. Do you desire an escort?”

I knew it would look odd not to take one. “My maid, Melissa, and a few soldiers, dear father. I shall be fine.”

My mother strode into the room, elegantly dressed in a long gown of pink and fuschia, gorgeously sewn, a delicate lace choker with a radiant pink jewel at her throat. She wore a diadem in her hair, also set with a pink stone. Her long lashes framed her delicate face. “My dear Zara,” she said kindly, her tone sad, “I shall miss you so. Come to me and give me a kiss.”

It repulsed me to touch her, but with my father looking on, I moved toward her. She forced me into her arms, my mouth screwed up in a wretched grimace of a smile. She hissed in my ear, “See that you do not return.” I straightened, and smoothed my gown.
“Why, I do believe I am crying,” she said, delicate droplets dotting her lashes. The King smiled fondly at her.

I wanted to retch, to reveal her and her lies as she stood there. But there was nothing I could do, naught that I could prove. She was my mother, and he my father. He would not believe any bad of her, any wickedness or cruelty. What was I to do?

I knew what I had to do.

I summoned Melissa to me. “Melissa, I am giving you a command that I do not wish to give,” I said, my face like stone, impassive, betraying none of my true feelings. “You will do it regardless of what you feel. I am asking, commanding, you to die for me.”

Confusion, even a hint of hurt, flashed across her face. “Of course, my princess.”

I lifted her chin forcefully, my fingers clutching her jaw. “I ask this sacrifice of you not only for my sake, but for that of my sisters. I mean to save them all.”

“What is it you would have me do?”

“Only this,” I answered. “We will change clothes. You will pretend to be a princess, will dance through the realm and speak sweetly to all those that ask after you. You will buy me time. I mean to make for a certain place, a place where I may learn what is to be the bane of my mother, what is to be her undoing. I mean to free us all from her dark spell. I will not tell you where I go, for if you do not know, it cannot be forced from you.”

She dipped into a curtsy, tears in her eyes. “It is a brave death,” she said. “I will accept it honorably.”

I smiled at her. “Come, let me kiss you.” She came toward me, and I pressed my lips against her cheek. They were cold, cold and icy as I was, as I had made myself. There were some who thought I felt nothing. It was not so. I could not bear to feel.

“From now on, you are Zara.” I cast a glamour upon her, something that made her appear as I was. I had learned some petty spells from books, from ancient tomes that were scattered across the library, books my mother neglected because she thought them no threat to her. She looked at me and gasped. “Yes, and I am Melissa. I shall be you,” I grinned. “You will have to act suitably upset about your runaway servant.” She nodded, determined to act the queen.

“I do not know how long the glamour will last,” I told her. “I do not wish you to die. If you are found out- run, if you can. I would rather have you remain alive. I do not wish you die.”

“I know, my princess,” Melissa answered me. It was my own features that came toward me, my features as cast upon her in the glamour I had wrought. “I know you did not wish me dead. I wish you luck with your quest.”

We left the next morning.

At a stream, when Melissa arrogantly bade me fill her golden cup with water, I slipped away into the wood. I had a destination, a specific place I desired to reach. I had packed provisions for myself, a rucksack filled with bread and cheese and apples and a canteen of water, the staples necessary to survive. I had read many a story in which the heroine survived on such fare, and believed myself very clever to have packed this way.

To my dismay, I found that many a stream was brackish and that I soon ran low on food. Parched and starving, I made my way through the wood, looking for helpful fairies or dwarfs, people to whom I could give my last loaf of bread in exchange for aid. I met no such people. Cursing the stories that had mislead me so, I at last reached the great white stone castle, the one that I had heard of, the one where the Mermaid Princess had turned into foam because the Prince could not love her.

I had heard that tale, heard it in horror and sadness, heard of the beautiful mermaid princess who sacrificed her tongue to the Sea-Witch for a pair of mortal legs. I heard, too, of her kind sisters, who cut off their hair in exchange for a knife, a knife with which the Mermaid Princess could have murdered the Prince, so that she could return to her glorious green fish-scales, shimmering in murky light. But she threw away the knife in horror, and instead doomed herself to die, to become foam, ocean’s breath, ever-present and simultaneously painfully, desperately negligible.

I knelt on that very beach, the sandy spit of land upon which she had lain, and raised the sharp knife to my wrist. I meant to summon the Sea-Witch, and I must call her with blood. I made a small horizontal slit in my skin and shook my wrist angrily over the waters, exclaiming, “Sea-Witch, Sea-Witch, I call you to me!” I knelt upon the sand and peered into the water, intent on whatever I might see.

The water bubbled red and viscous, the small droplets of blood turning into great crashing waves. I found myself drenched, cold and shivering upon the sand. At length I closed my eyes and felt the water pass over me, dragging me down to the depths. I opened my eyes inside her lair, the home of the Sea-Witch. I had my legs still, and my human form, and was strangely able to breathe, even though I was underwater.

Crags and stalacites hung above me, beautiful icicle-like shapes from which dripped rainbow water. The light hit the stalacites and stalagmites and reflected back off the minerals and ores that studded the rock, deep grainy purple veins and darkened silver that ran throughout. I looked upward in awe, glanced at the smooth grey rock that surrounded me. The water upon the floor of the cave was dark and purple, somehow I stood on a jut of grey rock inside the mouth of the cave. The water flowed all around the outside of the cave, but did not come inside, had it entered I would have choked to death instantaneously.

There was a great silver carving arising from the midst of the floor, two open pleading hands, curved so as to hold a great orb. A white substance swirled within the orb, holding no fixed shaped but remaining ever-liquid, blurring. The Beast’s mirror lay next to this orb, and I longed to look into it, glancing at the beautiful carving of the rose which composed its elaborate handle. The rose’s stem twined around and about, a glossy obsidian handle that meant to represent the darkened green leaves.

There was a set of knives and daggers inside of a golden rack at the far end of the cave. Their handles differed; some were made of mere bone while others were studded with gems and jewels. Plain and elaborate, they all shimmered. I caught the scrollwork upon one sword, it read, in elaborate English, ‘Whoso draweth this sword from the stone whence it is stuck shall be King of all of England. I smiled inadvertently as my eyes traveled over the riches of the cave.

Who called me? The voice was sibilant, sinister, and creaked as though rusty from disuse, as though the Sea-Witch was oiling the gears that allowed her to speak. Who has summoned me to my cave?

I stepped forward, my eyes defiant. “I have. I, Zara, princess of the throne.”

“And so you are,” her voice answered, as she emerged from a dusky backentrance to her cave. I took a sudden step backward as I saw her form.

Rheumy red eyes made up her face, which was sunk from the wrinkles that lined it. Long, wavy tendrils of grey hair flitted around her, wrapping around her nude upper body. Her chest was flat, the nipples shrunken, the skin itself still flesh-colored but obviously old. Her nails were long and clawed. She had a long green-gray tail that she wrapped around various pieces of stone, and her teeth were uneven, even slightly curved to give her a fanged, bloodthirsty look. I recoiled from her and she cackled.

“What, the lovely young princess does not wish to pay the price? You summoned the Sea-Witch, girl, I trust you know there is a price.”

She grasped my hand. Her grip was strong; I could not have thrown her off for anything. Her aged, wrinkled hands felt my young blood, ran up and down the cut by my wrist. She licked her lips. “Ah. I see the youngling has some wits about her.”

With an obscene smile, she bid me be seated. “So tell me what I can do for you, my young princess.” She smacked her lips.

I was nervous, frightened, but dared not show it. “I want to kill my mother,” I answered plainly.

“Matricide?” She smiled. “That is costly. Are you willing to pay for it?”

“What must I do?”

“Why, for that, I believe you would have to die. I would like a young body,” she purred, “and yours is quite comely. It would be quite easy to kill your mother, but the price is a little high, no?”

“I do not wish to die,” I said, “unless it is the only way. I want to protect myself and my siblings, to save us from her wrath. Can you devise nothing else?”

She lit a candle. I do not know how that candle could burn underwater, but burn it did, its orange-yellow glow filling the murky water with a disturbing glow. “Oh, I think I can,” she smiled. She reached for a large book, her gnarled fingers wrapping around the spine. “Let me see,” she thought aloud. “A castle, a castle with enchanted admirers. Yes, twelve princesses and twelve princes. I rather like that.” She turned to me. “That should last for a while. You should be safe. The only thing you must guard against is that none should ever discover your castle, for if anyone does, you will all be ruined.”

I was wary, for I saw no reason to trust her this easily. “What castle? Just what do you imagine to do for me, Grandmother?”

She cackled again. “Why, I shall give you a magnificent gift. There is a trapdoor in your tower room, one that you have never discovered…until now. That trapdoor, upon my command, shall lead to another kingdom, the netherworlds. It is eerily beautiful, with woods in which emerald trees grow, where golden forests and silver plants exist. You shall have suitors, my dears, men to entertain you and dance with you, men to love and who shall love you. If you do not like the ones my world provides, you need only entrap those who shall try to solve the mystery of where you go at night…to dance. Yes, dancing is quite right. I rather like dancing. You will recall that the Mermaid Princess entertained the prince by dancing, though her soles burned because of it. As you are human, and mortal, your feet need not feel on fire, however.

“You shall have lives,” she continues, spinning this fantasy for me once again, “more wonderful and beautiful than those of any other princess. Your princes shall love you and only you. You shall be at home amidst the enchanted, the beautiful, the spellbound. All this you shall have…so long as you please me.”

“What do you want in payment?” I flung at her suddenly. “What do you wish of me?”

“What do I wish of you? My dear, what I wish and what I demand are not the same at all, no, not the same. I wish your soul of you, your beauty, your tongue, your hair, but I think that I shall demand your happiness of you, my dear. You have a great capacity to be happy- I see it in you- but so long as I grant you all this, you shall never be happy. You shall be a princess, a queen, sorceress and enchantress, your beauty will be renowned and your sisters shall obey you- but you will not be happy. Should you ever meet a man whom you truly love, you shall not be happy with him. He will betray you or hurt you, whatever may be the case, I will take him from you. You shall not have him. This is the price I demand. The ruin of the happiness of one so young affords me much delight.”

Her red eyes flamed as she spoke thus, and I stood transfixed, frightened. I did not know how to answer her. I believed I would rather be unhappy and alive rather than dead and unfeeling, however, and so I acquiesced.

“We bind it in blood,” she said, “and then I will give you the key to the trapdoor. Remember, now, that you must never fall in love. If you do, I shall ruin your happiness. Should you ever have the gall to demand happiness of me, all bets are off. That is how the game is played. I shall wreak my bloody vengeance upon you, girl, and you may think yourself the winner. But it is not so. Oh, it is not so.” She smiled. “We bind it in blood.”

She wrenched my wrist away and took out a copper knife, a copper knife with a mother-of-pearl handle. She nicked her wrist but cut deeper into mine, and mixed our bloods together in a golden bowl. “We are joined, joined,” she intoned, “and you shall have your otherworldly pleasures.” I fainted, then, for I remember nothing more until I was cast up on land once more, bearing a strange scar on my wrist. It was odd in that it was in the shape of a star, a beautiful shape, milky-white, slightly paler than my own skin.

I made my way home, walked through forests, trudged over hills, and cannot recall what I ate or how I lived so that I might survive. When I returned it seemed that I was much older; years had passed, of that I am certain. I walked through brambles and thornbushes and none of them seemed to touch me; my skin was not marred, nor was I hurt in any way. Nothing appeared able to hurt me. Perhaps I was guarded by the Sea-Witch’s curse, perhaps that was the reason that nothing caused me pain or pleasure.

I returned home only to be exclaimed over and loved. As the Sea-Witch had said, my sisters obeyed me now, and seemed to have suffered sadness during my long departure. Melissa, I was saddened to hear, had been put to death for impersonating me. No one had known where I was. There was a great feast given in honor of my return, but my mother looked daggers at me the whole time. She seemed slightly afraid, slightly disturbed by my return. My father greeted me with joy and bestowed presents upon me. I explained that I believed that I had been taken captive, but could not remember where I had been forced to reside or remain. I shuddered delicately whenever anyone brought it up, and so people learned to put it aside, lest their vulgar curiosity cause me a series of convulsions.

It was that night that I made for the trapdoor. I did not know what was the true key, for I had been given a necklace by the Sea-Witch, a delicate necklace that was not any key I knew. I looked at the floor of our tower chamber when my sisters were sleeping, and instantly realized that I had only to move my bed to discover the trapdoor. I did this, and saw a small, glittering star upon the floor. I smiled, then, to realize what my key was, and held my wrist against the floorboard. The trapdoor opened, revealing a series of steps that led into the night. I was determine to go alone on this my first night, to face the dangers that were here on my own.

I made my way down the golden steps only to step into a silver wood. I was amazed at the silver trees that sprung up around me, the silver plants and blades of grass. As I walked, I felt no unpleasant sharpness, no cruel stab of metal against my thin slippers. I gazed about in amazement, feeling the rush of cool air, the pleasant smells of a forest, the dark midnight blue of the sky. I saw a glorious moon above me and moved quickly, in order to reach my destination.

I stepped into a field of gold, then. I followed the path in the wood and heard small cracking sounds that I soon realized belonged to little animals, weasels and rabbits, running through the wood. I moved onward, reaching an emerald wood, and finally a crossing. There were great beautiful boats, carved in the shape of swans. I saw an oarsman in attendance. I touched his arm and he arose.

“Princess Zara,” he bowed to me. “I am delighted that you have come.”

He was quite handsome, with an open expression and beautiful brown curls dusting his forehead. It was only his deep brown eyes that bore a slightly glazed expression, and I did not let that bother me over much. He took me to the castle, wherein I beheld fairy couples dancing across the floor, each garbed in satins and samite. Chandeliers with glittering crystal graced the hall, and the clothing was like none I had ever seen. I looked at these fairies and fae creatures and smiled, for they did not even seem to notice my presence. I saw that there were a few men partnerless, doubtless members of the fae. I soon learned that if I merely tapped one on the shoulder, he asked me for a dance.

And that is how it began.

It became a game, as you well know. I invited my sisters into the darkness, the world beyond, and enchanted them. We all became quite cruel to our suitors, which made our mother laugh and smile. She did not realize that we were well content with our fairy kings and princes. What is more, once my father offered a reward to those who would discover our secret, we drugged those men and brought them to our kingdom. There, they became our princes and suitors as well. We were loved by everyone, thought lovely and handsome and beautiful. We had new dancing slippers every day, and the fairies made us gifts of the rich clothing they wore.

We were all content and perfectly well-satisfied. There was nothing to disturb us.

That was until I met Michael.

I did not know his name was Michael at first. I knew him only because I met him at a tourney. I was a princess, but I was tired and hot and cared nothing for the sun. I meant to go inside, and was walking toward the gardens. That was when I saw him the first time, his hair dark as well, but he was dressed in gilded armor, and he had a jolly, kind expression upon his face.

“My lady,” he said, and lifted his visor. I extended my hand and he kissed it chivalrously. He made for the fountains, took off his helmet, and splashed water upon his face. I laughed at his disregard for chivalry. It was only afterwards that he scooped up a bit of water, and his face screwed up into a great smile, motioned toward me and asked whether I wished to drink.

That was how I met Michael.

It was the first of our clandestine meetings. I laughed with him and amused him and bewitched him. He did not know he was a princess. I never told him. There were so many of us, how could he know? It was hard for our royal father not to confuse us with one another. Michael brought me nosegays and I flirted with him, though I knew that I could never truly marry him. He was a simple soldier, simple and kind. I suppose I used him, though in truth I hoped against hope that I could find a way to allow for our love to become a reality, to end in marriage.

My mother put a stop to that.

My mother found us one day, flirting by the fountain. She watched and observed and pouted, smiling cruelly. She informed my lord father the next day. He summoned me before him, and bade Michael attend him as well. Michael went white when he realized that I was Zara, the Princess Zara. He listened as my father sternly lectured him, as he thundered at me. Michael’s eyes held such betrayal when they looked at mine. I had broken him, somehow, broken him by my oblique lie. I could not even hear the words my father said, words that sounded familiar and slurred, words which included, “honor” and “duty” and “obligation” and even some too cruel to repeat over, gleaned, I think, from what my mother had said.

It gave my mother great happiness to take my love from me. I ran after Michael once our audience was over, ran after him and begged him to believe that I would never have been so merciless or cruel to him. He could not. He could not listen to me. I told him about my mother, about her vindictive cruelty, about how she was jealous of her own daughters, jealous of our beauty and our suitors. I thought I saw the flicker of belief in his eyes for a moment, but then he coldly informed me that I was a liar and a Princess, and far too good for him to speak with.

I cried that night, cried in the castle towers, cried bitterly and angrily.

And that was when I made the worst mistake of my life. I cried out, bitterly and angrily, that I wanted my happiness. I wanted happiness and I wanted freedom, I wanted the freedom to love and choose and be loved. I did not give a damn for my sisters or my mother or anyone else; I merely wanted to be happy, happy and free.

The image of the Sea-Witch appeared before my eyes and she hissed at me, a cruel and terrible sound. “You have reneged on your promise,” she said, and her eyes promised revenge. “You have reneged on your promise, and you will pay for it.” Terrified, I begged her to forgive me, begged her to ignore the words I had foolishly, stupidly said. I begged her, I prayed to her, I swore to give her anything she might want. “You have reneged on your promise,” she answered. “I will remember.”

For a while, nothing happened. All seemed right with the world. The sun still shone, the dancing princes still existed, we still wore our slippers through and the mystery went unsolved. My sisters still obeyed me and even showed some affection toward me. My mother, while still cruel and vindictive, did nothing worse to me. I dared to believe it was all a bad dream, a mirage that had thrust itself before my face, borne of my fears and my dark hopes.

But then Michael came again.

You have heard, of course, of the old woman that Michael encountered on the road. This old woman told him not to drink the wine we would give him, the wine that would drug him so that he would sleep soundly through the night. This old woman gave him an invisibility cloak so that he could steal after us unseen.

Who was this old woman? Why, the Sea-Witch, of course.

And so it was that Michael, now a soldier, disillusioned with the world, wounded, but still incomparably kind and handsome, came to our castle. When I saw him I gasped, and tried to dissuade him, but he would not be dissuaded. I prepared the wine myself, spicing it well, making sure that he drunk it. When I saw him snoring I ran my fingers through his hair and kissed his cheek. I loved him so, though he did not know it.

And then we went down the trapdoor.

Lina heard him, though I paid no attention to her. She felt him step upon her cloak; she heard the crack as he broke off the branches that he would present to the king. She felt the extra weight in her swan boat.

We all danced with the princes that night, though my heart was not in it. But I was determined to have a good time, and so I placed a smile on my face, and made my heart merry. I danced with my suitors and smiled at them, wheeled about in my dress of fine cloth-of-gold. I drank rich wine and tasted of the sweetmeats and delicacies. My face was a mask of delight, when all that I truly desired was to remain with Michael.

He saw me, and he hated.

How could I have known that he watched me, beneath his invisible cloak? He saw my gay countenance, my smiling face; he saw me and he judged. He judged me false, thought me a liar, thought that I had toyed with him when in truth my love for him was the purest feeling I had ever known. He thought me a liar and his eyes bored into mine. I felt uncomfortable, even watched, but dismissed the idea that anyone could have followed us. I knew it was impossible. I knew.

His hatred should have frozen my blood, I should have felt it, I did feel it…but I would not admit it to myself. I knew that something was amiss, but I did not know what it was.

I did notice the missing goblet. But I could not imagine who could have taken it.

It was in the morning, when we were summoned to the court, that I realized my mistake. There Michael stood, and his eyes hated mine, did not even look into mine. He presented my father with the three twigs from the three woods, and then with the goblet from our table. He named Lina as his desired bride.

I wanted to die.

I realized, then, exactly what he had seen, exactly how I had undone my own happiness- all this planned by the Sea-Witch, the vile Sea-Witch who was my tormenter! I wanted to kill her; I wanted to die. I wanted to tell Michael the truth.

I tried. I tried to explain to Michael about our mother, our cruel, treacherous, vindictive mother, to explain why I had found this alternate reality, this place where we would not need to suffer her angry glances, her barbed words. Uncertainty flooded his eyes. He promised me that he would look into it.

He returned to clap me in chains.

My mother had been murdered, he announced, and I was the one who had killed her. My eyes burned with righteous anger. “I never touched her!” I screamed, but it was at that very moment that I saw the Sea-Witch flitting by. She wore my form as easily as a cloak, and I knew then, I knew what he had seen. “You demon!” I shouted, and reached for the Sea-Witch, but all that I clasped was the body of Melissa, my faithful servant. Michael recoiled from me in horror. “She calls the dead to her!” he shouted, running for the guards. I wept over Melissa, Melissa whose dead form had apparently still retained the vestiges of my form, Melissa whose body had been used by the Sea-Witch to murder my mother.

I was placed in the dungeons, dank and musty as they were. I refused to yield, refused to admit guilt. It would have been a kindness if I had killed my mother, but I had not; it was the Sea-Witch, wearing my form, stolen from the glamour I had placed on Melissa. But who would believe me? You would think that Michael should have seen it. Had he not worn an invisible cloak just moments earlier? And if he could wear an invisible cloak, why so strange that another could don my form?

But he hated me, he hated me because he had loved me, and so he would never see it.
Michael told my father of my crimes, swearing that I had been the one who murdered my mother. My father delivered a ringing slap upon my cheeks, and scorched my soul with his angry words. He had truly loved my mother, and so he truly hated me.

I was given a trial. It was no true trial, for I was condemned by all. Even from beyond the grave, my mother won, poisoning their hearts. All that I had done, I had done for my sisters, I had done to save them from the cruelty she had visited upon me. They cared nothing for me. They did not believe me.

Michael, as the new King, banished me from the realm. My father seconded the decree. My sisters looked on in dumb silence.

Michael visited me before he sent me away. “I loved you,” he said, and his eyes were filled with pain. “I loved you so. I loved you and you lied to me, tormented me, used men for your amusement, used men as your playthings. A kingdom of men, Zara! A fairy-kingdom made of men! What cruelty is in you.” He looked at me, and his eyes accused me. “You are evil, Zara. You are evil.”

And yet my wicked evil nature did not prevent him from taking me in an attempt to kiss me. I tried to escape from his grasp but he held me with strong hands, hands that gripped like iron. “You deserve this, damn you!” he roared. “You deserve to have the pain that you visited upon me visited upon you.” He kissed me and I laughed in his face, laughed because he did not believe me, because I knew that it was still me he truly loved, and it scared him to love the evil in me.

“I have done nothing,” I said honestly. “I did not kill my mother. I never would. I never loved anyone but you. All that was done, was done by the Sea-Witch.”

His eyes looked into mine as he struggled to believe, but hate won out. He would believe in my evil and his hatred first before he could ever forgive me. For forgiveness would take a letting down of his pride, and that he could not allow.

He banished me. He banished me, but I knew that I was always his, that I was the form that danced before his eyes, I the one he truly wanted. He married Lina, and supposedly he was “happily ever after.” But I know better. For I was the truly good one. I was the only one who tried to save them all, to save them from my mother, to spare my father, to love Michael.

And yet I am the evil one.

It is fitting, then, that I am where I am. Cast out by all, banished by Michael, hated by my father, neglected by my sisters, I am bitter, the bitter and beautiful princess that never was.

I am Zara, Sea-Witch’s apprentice.

I will kill her one day. And then I will become the Sea-Witch, ruler of the seas. I will destroy the lives of innocent maidens in payment for her destruction of my own. The bitterness, the hatred, the cruelty lives in me. Oh, I am evil, but I am evil because they have made me so.

I will be the Sea-Witch.

And you will love me when I kill you.

Saturday, December 23, 2006

Favorite Time of Year, Birthdays, and Memories

I trust a whole lot of you have seen this postcard.

Truth be told, I love the lights, the sparkling beauty that appears during this season. I love the fairytale stories, the make-believe, the magic that sprinkles all the downtown store windows, the whole shopping district. I love colors and neon shades of sparkling beautiful lights. I love it all.

But this is hardly my favorite time of year. (Or if it is, it's not because of the lights. It's because of the snow, the skating, and best of all, my birthday.)

The PostSecret blog is bereft of Chanukah postcards. That's slightly sad.

What's more sad, I think, is the picture this sender chose. Not only do we have a Christmas tree in all its glory, but we also have cherubim- suggesting, although I doubt the sender meant this, that it's not the lights s/he likes, but the holiday in all its religious symbolic meaning.

R' Soloveitchik was very right to differentiate emotional highs from religious halakhic obligations. He wrote that the American Jew is very involved with ceremony and emotions. Ceremony in that it's the snowy-white tablecloth that makes Shabbos special, not its intrinsic holiness. And emotions that make religion matter- which means that without those emotions, one can dismiss the laws or customs that one does not like.

It is not our accoutrements or trappings that make us beautiful, that make our religion special, or lend us more meaning than other religions. A priest is still a priest without his vestments; a man is still a man if he is dressed in rags. The Sabbath is still the Sabbath whether we eat from a lavish board and drink from silver goblets, or sit upon the bare dirt and clutch our knees to stave off the cold.

We believe in beauty allied to religion, of course. We must decorate the sukkah and make it beautiful. Our tabernacle, our Mishkan, our Bais Hamikdash, our Kohen Gadol, the High Priest- they are all garbed in silks and satins, golds and silvers, rich clothes, beautiful garments. We believe in emotions allied to mitzvot. We are to serve God with joy and love, with all that is in our hearts.

But we do not stop serving because we do not feel.

And we do not underestimate the value of God or his followers simply because his House or their garments are destroyed.

Therefore, though I like the lights of Christmas- I love them, even; I enjoy looking at them and smiling up at the trees and watching the shoppers go about their weary, resigned days, looking for those special gifts- I do not confuse them with intrinsic meaning. They are beautiful, they twinkle, they sparkle, I enjoy them...but they are not enough to make this my favorite time of year. At least, not in the most meaningful way I know.

Now as for my birthday...that's another matter.

(Speaking of my birthday, I find that I have received most of the things I wished for last year. I got to go to Wicked, received an iPod, found quite a lot of Calvin and Hobbes comics online, received some nice cards, saw Carmen, saw The Phantom of the Opera, received lots of books. I no longer want skirts from that site. *smile* Family and friends of mine, you are amazing.)

On another note, now that it's almost my birthday once again- some of my best memories of this year:

1. The Teeny Blog Awards, way back when. I was so touched by this.
2. The Second Shabbos at Stern
3. North Shore Country Day! All you people rock. Sending me care packages and letters and postcards and Halloween candy rocks, too.
4. All the people for whom my anonymity has been shot. (Gosh, there's a lot of you.) I'm still amazed that you people are out here and read what I write.
5. All the kind words I've received from people I don't even know.
6. The zany craziness that is New York and the very strange people who live here. (Very, very strange.) Oh, the experiences I have had! (And you don't know the half of them.)
7. Lots of school-related things. Not even the people, though they're definitely part of it, but all the fun opportunities I have- Medical Ethics conferences, Rabbi Slifkin speeches, the Morg, Carmen, Fencing, Newspaper
8. The movies I have seen... (Fight Club, The Mask of Zorro, Pride and Prejudice- BBC version, and so many more) and the books I have read (GRRM and Robin Hobb being at the top)

And all the wonderful things that are to come!

And now I have to go study Navi. (And yes, I was studying before. Really. I was.)

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Unfair: Biology Lab Practicum

I am infuriated.

It’s because of my Biology Lab Practicum (Final.)

I did relatively poorly on this final. I am a good student. This grade is completely different from my usual performance in this class.

There are two reasons for this:

1. The final was not composed, created, or in any way made up by the Professor who teaches my Bio Lab. It was instead created by the Head Biology Professor. I feel like I have been penalized because I was not in the Head Biology Professor’s class. I did receive a review sheet from the Head Biology Professor. I thought it prudent to divide my time between studying from this review sheet and from my lab notes. My lab notes, however, as taught by my Professor, are much more conceptual in nature (focusing on ideas and vocab terms.) The final focused on a methodological approach to Bio Lab: it was detail-oriented, focusing on chemical equations, an understanding of all the steps in the experiment, and which gases were emitted at what time.

2. After speaking to several students, I am almost entirely convinced that the final given on Monday and the final given on Tuesday were the same exact test, with the same exact questions. The questions were not, to the best of my knowledge, rewritten, reworded, or refocused to test the same concepts differently. This means that there is a good chance that there are students who took the test on Tuesday with prior knowledge of its content. This is monstrously unfair. It is very different from the Midterm, where the questions were changed and reworded.

I personally know that there is a good chance that students took the test with prior knowledge of its content because I, a Monday test-taker, was asked by another student what questions were on the test. I did not answer her.

I think the system would be much improved if:

1. Everyone took the final on the same day
2. Finals were composed by the professors teaching the material, or we should be informed that we should ONLY study the Head Biology Professor’s review sheet to the exclusion of our own lab notes

Because of my grade on this Lab Practicum, my entire Biology Lab grade suffers. I now have an average that is a full letter-grade lower than my usual performance in this class.

I feel that this does not accurately reflect the time, effort and energy I have put into Bio Lab. I think it is unfair that I am expected to take a test that was not composed by my professor, and especially unfair for my grades to be compared to those of others who had every opportunity (if I am correct, and I think I am) to cheat.

I am as of yet unaware as to how this grade appears on my transcripts. Even if it is averaged into my Bio Lecture grade, it is the principle behind this that bothers me. I cannot understand why our Midterm was made into such an important affair- the window to the classroom was blocked with paper, the questions were reworded and changed- and the actual Final is treated like a walk in the park, with no precautions, safeguards, or check-systems in place.

This is truly unfair.

Addendum: I neglected to study as much as I could have for this test, based on certain assumptions I made about the material. I did not study to the extent I could have, and do not deny that a certain part of the blame rests on me. Some of this is my own fault.

The Strange Musings of an Adolescent at 2 AM

Why am I up now?

Why am I up now?

Oh, you're asking me why I am up now?

Well, I will tell you why I am up now.

Because I have the Biology Test of Doom tomorrow in precisely 7 hours.
Because I have the Chumash Test of Beauty later in the day.

Because I've been in the Cafeteria studying. I arrived there only to scoop out the leftover kernels of candied popcorn, pour myself the most awful-tasting cup of coffee in existence, go upstairs to the Levy Lobby, proceed to irritate the occupants there, then make myself silent so as to regain their favor, and finally to study. Yes, to study Chumash, which is an utterly fantastic blend of magic, mystery, literary devices and wonder.

I must, however, confess my failures before then. First, I called my father with an ethical dilemma. My Chumash teacher desires us all to bring a sefer Shmos (Exodus) and a Tanakh to the test tomorrow. Now, someone raised their hand and said, "I've marked up my Chumash." My teacher waved her hand dismissively and said that didn't matter.

Enter thought into Chana's sadistic brain. I know, I know, my brain clamored. I will study Chumash, and I will mark up the entire Chumash tonight. With pencilled-in notes. Of course that's not cheating. Why would you think that?

Except for that nagging feeling that tells me "You fool. It couldn't be that easy."

And so my father became truly unimpressed (dare I say disappointed? Yes, I suppose.) He informed me that obviously this is unethical, in thrilling and impressive tones (well, not really. I just add that for dramatic effect.) And then I mentioned that I had neglected to thank my Aunt, who made me a magnificent luncheon, and was termed an "ungrateful brute."

This is absolutely true, and I do owe my Aunt both thanks and an apology. But I have to say I enjoy the way the words roll of the tongue. This is a clever, creative way of terming it. I approve. I am, ladies and gentleman, an ungrateful brute.

Things I learned today:

If someone innocently asks you the time, do not assume this person merely wants the time. Really he's a guy who dropped out of college, works in the supermarket, is going "bowling" with his friend tonight, wants to know if you like bowling, informs you as he follows you down Fifth Avenue that he feels like the two of you are "dating," and that he'd like to take you out.

Never drink two cups of sugared caffinated coffee in order to keep awake. Oh, you'll be awake all right, but in a strange, disturbed, hyperventilating, insane frame of mind. You will suddenly have the ability to read things VERY quickly, to sound very happy, to frighten your friends. Your fingers and hands shake. I have now learned what Chana on drugs is like. It is not happy. I do not approve.

Things I learned yesterday:

Padding around the cafeteria in your stocking-feet whilst dressed in pajamas and a long pink bathrobe is quite fun. You feel like you own the place, and can speak cordially to the walls that echo and bow to you at your command. The walls ring with the sound of Biology. It's lovely. People smile at you and enjoy your cleverness.

Things I appreciate:

Taz is amazing. He did over two hours of research for me because I asked him for help with one small thing. That's insane. And so appreciated. And he didn't even find the answer that I needed, unfortunately, and he STILL did it. (Why are all of the Jewish books at the guys' library, not the girls'? It wrecks my life. Chana is a Sad and Depressed person. Chana's Medulla Oblangata will be Saddened now.)

My friend, who shall remain nameless, passed on to me an official Ego-Booster from her brother (huzzah her brother! Also Nameless. Nameless is actually quite the popular word.) I shall give it to you, as it is highly amusing and fantastic. Only listen to this with the sound ON. Here it is: Ego-Booster.

Wish me luck with my tests, my dear people.

God, please help me out here. I am praying for my Bio notes to come back to me. I requested them back from the girl who took them while I studied Chumash, and they have not arrived. Please, God. Be merciful. I DESERVE to be able to look at my Bio notes once more before I enter the Disastrous Delightful Testing Zone.

Good night, my friends. Or is it good morning?

(I'd like a peach now. Peaches are nice. Peaches, nectarines...I desire a peach. Oh, peach, come to me!)

Yes, I should probably get to bed now.
*sleeps*

Monday, December 18, 2006

Recreating Oneself: Born to be Good

middah megunah

lo tachmod,

lo titaveh,

~Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik

from The Rav: The World of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik by Aaron Rakeffet-Rothkoff, Volume 2, page 192

This is one of my favorite quotes, one of the most meaningful quotes I've ever read.

I respect those people whom I can relate to, those people whom I can see and understand. I respect human beings, flawed people, people who create themselves and recreate themselves and strive to be better.

From them, I draw strength.

Because if Rabbi Soloveitchik admitted to having flaws, and was able to work on them and rectify them, how much the more so I! His personality is one that I can feel close to because it reminds me of my own. He is literary, thoughtful, romantic, a pragmatic idealist. He is obviously far more learned than I am. He is also a great leader.

And yet, there's something that unites us both. And that's our humanity.

Who would have suspected he could have felt envy, such a low feeling? To be envious of another? To be envious of another child?

And yet he was.

And the fact that he is able to take himself into his own hands, to decide what he would like to be like and work on himself so that he can achieve that goal impresses me and fascinates me. Because that means I can do it, too.

When I look at myself, truly, behind the grand performer that I like to play, I see the flaws. I see my self-centered nature, I see the arrogance, the condescension that I do not mean, my almost idolatrous worship of intellect and intelligence. I see how judgmental I am. I see how little I care about other people, how little I do for them. I see, in other words, who I really am.

I also see, if I truly am looking at myself without hiding, without flinching, that I like to force a difference between me and others, that I like to pull apart, to remain aloof, in order to make myself feel special or different. I like that sense of difference, but I have yet to learn how to create it from within myself, as opposed to without. My self-conscious individuality is only a mockery of what individuality truly is, and when I look at myself truly, I know that, too.

But it seems so hard to change oneself into what one wants to become. It seems so hard to try to care about people when you have no patience, when you have never had any patience. It goes against your nature. It goes against your instincts.

But then the question becomes- well, who is in control here? Me, the maker and creator, or me, the instinctual response that dismisses people because I've decided they are worthless? Obviously, I want it to be the former.

So the way it must work is not to get caught up in the daunting path that lies ahead of me, but simply to throw myself forward and to endeavor to be like all those people I most respect and admire, all of whom have some similarity to me and my personality, but have taken it to far greater lengths, are much kinder and nicer and all around better than I am.

The most effective teachers are those who teach out of love. Not those who teach to impress, to force others to respect them and admire them, but those who teach because they truly feel an empathic connection with their students and want them to do well. The most effective teachers are able to speak to bright students and not-so-bright students and treat them equally, because they speak to them out of love.

I cannot do that. I do not have the patience, and I resist changing by simply claiming that I am superior. When I look at myself truly, I see this. It's not a pleasant thing to see.

It's Rabbi Soloveitchik and people like him who give me hope. They admit this exists. They admit that we are born with bad qualities or propensities or penchants toward a certain kind of behavior. But they take it further- they make us into masters. We are the masters, we are the creators, we can create ourselves as we'd like to be. All we need to do is to want to do it, and then to work at it- work hard, perhaps harder than anything I've ever done, but then succeed.

I know who I would like to be. It's not who I am now. I know that I am going to be frustrated, impatient, angry, irritated and infuriated before I ever get there. Nobody likes remodeling their personality. And yet, that is what is needed here; that is what is commanded of me.

I began with a quote, and I will end with a quote:

"My late father told me that before he left to accept his first rabbinical post in the city of Raseyn [Raseiniai], he visited his father, Reb Chaim of Brisk. Reb Chaim instructed him as follows: "Like all Jews, a rabbi must be charitable and compassionate. Not only when he is a good person by nature, but even if he is naturally not like that. I myself was born with an impersonal and insensitive nature, but I worked on myself until I developed good character traits" (Volume 1, page 251).

I was not born a good person.

But I was born to be a good person.

And that is what I need to do.

Sunday, December 17, 2006

Severus Snape is a Good Man

For all you Harry Potter fans who have been misled by J. K. Rowling's plot-trap, the truth is that Snape is good!

You're wondering why? How? What?

So, I could give you my very lengthy explanation (in which case I would need to have the book of front of me, which I don't, because that, like so many other things, is currently residing in Chicago.)

Or I could just tell you that there is precedent!
In fact, eerily similar precedent.

(By the way, the next person who tells me that J.K. Rowling is so original will be subject to my withering look of disdain.)

Here's the precedent, folks, and now we can all agree that Severus Snape is a good man.

From A Clash of Kings by George R. R. Martin (quite possibly the most fantastic epic fantasy writer ever, definitely the most original, least formulaic, again, fantastic):

Command

but

watch

and then:

No!

Turn

You must not balk, whatever is asked of you.

He knew

He knew what they would ask of me.

And reiterated again in A Storm of Swords:

No more than I am yours.

~

So, when it comes to Snape, Snape is Jon Snow, of course. Dumbledore is Qhorin Halfhand. In the same way that Qhorin commands Jon to do whatever is asked of him, knowing full well that he is going to die, Dumbledore commands Snape (in the woods, when Hagrid overhears) to do whatever is asked of him, even killing him. When Dumbledore begs and says, "Please...please..." he is begging Snape to fulfill this final duty, to kill him. Dumbledore is aware of what this will mean for Snape, how everyone will perceive him, hate him, revile him. He knows why Snape hesitates. But he begs him to kill him...Recall that Dumbledore requests Harry to go find Snape as soon as they return to the castle. Dumbledore knew the time was right, that it was his time to die, to be killed. Notice that Snape has ample opportunity to kill Harry (throughout all the books, when he's teaching him Occlumency, but most especially when he is running with Draco Malfoy and hurling curses over his shoulder at Harry.) Why hurl those curses? Why not kill Harry with one well-placed curse?

Because, of course, Snape is good.

If it should happen that I am wrong, and that J.K. Rowling makes Snape into a bad person, it will definitely be the stupidest, most idiotic, formulaic, move of all of the books, because it would be awesomely predictable, make Dumbledore look like a fool, and suggest that Harry's paranoia was actually good sense. In other words, it would ruin her entire series.

So for the good of her own series, Severus Snape must be a good man.

Of course, knowing JK Rowling, it's entirely possible she opts for ruining her series.

But I hope not. Because God knows it would be far more interesting to see the look on Harry's face when he realizes he's trying to kill the one good man throughout all the books, the man who has to suffer so much and bear so much in order to help save them all, the misjudged, hated and reviled hero...Severus Snape.