This Season of Giving

Now that I am thinking about values, I cherish and wish to pass on, they spill forth, integrity, honesty, compassion and in this season of giving tzedakah, a Hebrew word we often translate as charity.

            Yesterday at a Bat Mitzvah at Temple Israel in Boston, I listened as Suzie, a young cousin, described her tzedakah project, volunteering for an organization that gives birthday parties to homeless children. The project brought her to a homeless shelter in Roxbury. How lovely and poised she was talking about her experiences. How well versed in Hebrew as she read from the Torah, led us prayer. How articulate as she interpreted her Torah portion. Yesterday, standing on the bima, the altar, her grandparents and her parents passed her the Torah, both literally, and figuratively, handing her the scroll, passing on Jewish tradition. Jewish values.

            I never had a Bat Mitzvah. My sons did not have Bar Mitzvahs. No formal Jewish education for any of us. I came back to Judaism too late for that. Sitting in the sanctuary, yesterday, I realized my own journey toward a Bat Mitzvah would be the opposite of Suzie’s. I would not receive the Torah; I would pass it on to my grandchildren in a more formal way than I’d done for my sons. For Torah is more than the scroll, more than Midrash, those years of interpretation of the texts. Torah is a way of life integrally involving mitzvot or good deeds. And tzedakah.

            Before Suzie’s service, I spent time in a small room off a corridor viewing an exhibit where artists had painted, constructed and built tzedakah boxes. A traditional tzedakah box is just that, a box with a slot where you drop in coins or bills, then choose a charity to which you’ll donate. These tzedakah boxes were works of art. Words accompanied the exhibit, and I learned that tzedakah literally means righteousness or justice. This is the concept of Jewish charity I want to pass on. In Jewish tradition, charity is not a favor we give to the poor, but something the poor have a right to, and we as donors have an obligation to provide. And most important is the spirit with which we give, for the value of our gift increases with human kindness. And the most highly valued gift of all is a gift of the self.

            Happy giving to all. 

Let's Talk

What makes a value Jewish? How can Judaism claim what many of us value, Jewish or not? I shift in my chair. Face Lev. This is another moment in that Starbuck’s in Winchester when we met. In front of me, a display of red and white mugs, wrapped with red bows. Outside, the white lights of Christmas. Lev gives me a knowing smile. “So, Judaism gives us this, these values and it (Judaism) includes anybody who has these values.”

So because I am Jewish, exploring values such as my love of learning or my commitment caring for others, those less fortunate or those who are sick, in a Jewish context, those values become Jewish. Is that what Lev is saying?

“Yes,” he says.

And here I am—it seems—exploring a constant theme in my life and my work: Jewish identity. When I began my writing life as a fiction writer, none of my characters was Jewish, and many of my stories lacked an authenticity, something intangible that shone through certain characters. I, the writer, was wishy-washy, refusing to declare an essence. Was that character Jewish? I, the character and the reader needed to know. But in real life, I could pass, and I did, sometimes declaring I was Jewish, sometimes not. I hid behind a wreath on my door, a Christmas tree in my living room. The only Jews in our rural New Hampshire town where I was raising my family, I truly believed I could live inside the landscape of a Currier and Ives print. Walking into woods behind our house with my husband and my sons, we would choose a tree, chop it down, drag it home through snow.

Those romantic images of country life have an underside. When I began teaching language arts to fifth through eighth graders in my town, the two most hurled insults on the playground were the N word and Jew. I denounced both, told my class I was Jewish. A sixth grade boy brought me a book: The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. Published in 1902, The Protocols is a anti-Semitic rant, purporting to describe a Jewish plan for global domination. It is a forgery. That same sixth grader asked to see my horns. I’d thought such myths associating Jews with the devil had died out with the middle ages, but he year was 1972. I taught tolerance. At home, I told myself, I could do both, turn on the lights of my Christmas tree and light my Hanukkah menorah. My children were wiser. “Mom, it’s too confusing,” Richard my oldest son said. “Can’t we just celebrate Hanukkah.”

            And we did.

            As the years passed, I became more and more visibly Jewish which meant for me, studying Torah, especially the women of the Hebrew Bible. I read and I read, diving down into the wealth of Jewish learning. I brought what was deep inside of me to the surface, memories of cooking with my grandmother as she prepared shabbos dinner, then circled her thick fingers over the candle flames before blessing the shabbos candles. I learned the prayer, moved my own fingers in a circle, and gathering in goodness and light, I blessed the candles inside my grandmother’s brass candlesticks.

So, is Jewish identity a value I can pass on? Although I’d like to do just that, I can’t. Each of us has our own journey toward that philosophic search for self. What I can pass on is a desire to know and to learn. A wealth of Jewish learning trails behind us. Only by knowing where we came from will we learn who we are. 

Judaism is a religion of dialogue. I invite your comments. Let’s talk. 

Grammy's Bat Mitzvah, A Journey

What will a Bat Mitzvah of this soon to be seventy-four year old grandmother look like? I figured I’d have to study Hebrew, learn a few prayers, bless bread and wine, provide a teaching moment, serve lunch, then hugs all around. All in my living room on the coast of Maine where, finally, after all these years, I would become a Bat Mitzvah, a daughter of the commandments.

Lev, my teacher, my rabbi, my friend, my mentor listened. We met at Starbucks in Winchester, Massachusetts, Lev rushing in, hatless, coatless, on this the first day that winter announced itself. Outside, the wind blew strong. Inside, people sat at small tables, some with lap tops, others on cell phones. A group of men talked loudly in a corner. Soon, I would no longer hear their voices. Soon, I would hear only Lev, a man I’ve known for nearly twenty years, ever since he came to New Hampshire, a graduate of the Jewish Theological Seminary of Cincinnati. He brought me back to the synagogue. I attended Torah study, began to prepare for a Bat Mitzvah. Then, Lev left. I was bereft. Gone his joy, his spontaneity, his verve, his spirit and his very unconventional approach to Jewish learning. Soon, I left that synagogue, too. But ever since, I've missed a commitment to Judaism.

Now, Lev is studying to become a nurse. Yet, he is still a rabbi and a teacher. In May, he will move to Austin, Texas, and I will no longer be able to meet him at this Starbucks. If I’m going to have a goal, commit to Jewish study, become a Bat Mitzvah, a daughter of the commandments, I must do this now. In my bag, I’ve carried books of beginning Hebrew. That’s where I’ve been for years, beginning Hebrew, over and over. If I study. When I study, I don’t know what the words say. This bothers me. I’m a writer; meaning is my work.

Meaning is Lev’s work. When I talked with him about learning the aliyot, blessings over the Torah, he told me I wouldn’t like the translations when I knew them. I understood, all of those masculine references to God as Lord, King, Ruler. All of that top down stuff. Hierarchy. The doctrine of the chosen. I don’t believe in a traditional doctrine of the chosen or in a traditional God.  I’m about community. Lev is about community.

These last two years, my work has taken a turn backwards in time. I’ve been writing about France during the years of German occupation. I’ve visited France, interviewed number of people, one a ninety-four year old woman who was girl guide, caretaker, in a secret house that protected Jewish children. I’ve been reading and researching. Inevitably, I have found myself with the Jewish dead. My work is freighted, but what I’m looking for is light and life, a seventeen year old girl with beautiful hair, whose drawings survived in a locked suitcase, a Catholic German theologian and philosopher who brought that story to a small French village. These are the things I want to pass on, a love of life and of learning. Lev, spoke to me of an ethical will.  An ethical will, Zevaoth, in Hebrew is the tradition of writing a long letter to your children in which you express your ethical values. But what are ethical values? Can I name mine? Intrigued, I wrote down the name of book Lev recommended: Ethical Wills. 

“Before we leave,” Lev said, “we must set a date.”

Oh my God, this is going to happen.

He pulled out his iPhone. He will be East for a wedding in August. “The eighteenth or nineteenth in the morning?”

I draw a breath. “Either one.” 

He types in both, sets his iPhone on table. "We can decide."

Last Morning in Paris

On this, my last morning in Paris, am up with the pigeons and the street sweepers, men wearing green trousers and green shirts, the green bristles of their brooms matching. I have made a promise to myself, so in spite of the miserable cold rain, I’m walking crossing Seine, walking the narrow streets of the Ile Saint Louis, on my way to Notre Dame. More than fifty years ago, I sat in an art history class, a college sophomore, my professor’s wooden stick, pointing to a large grainy screen, her voice extolling the virtues of a flying buttress, and I wondered: What the hell is a flying buttress. I couldn’t find the thing. Couldn’t imagine the thing. And this morning, I saw not one, but a row of flying buttresses, those amazing, arched structures that allow the massive Cathedral of Notre Dame to stand.

Crossing back over the Seine, the wind blows cold rain into my face. Still, I head for the Marais, the old Jewish neighborhood that I have been exploring and writing about in recent essays. How easily I find my way along these streets, rue de payannes, to rue de franc bourgeois, then looping around to rue de rossiers, the Jewish heart of the Marais. Stores are still closed. A few people walk briskly, a number of them Orthodox Jews wearing black suits with wide flat brimmed black hats or yarmulkes, and I wonder if today is a Jewish holiday? There are many Jewish holidays, I, a Jew, can’t name.

            Now a stroll around the places des voges, always peaceful whether the heavens send rain or sun. My hotel is near here, and I’ve come to love this neighborhood, but I’m not ready to do my last minute packing. Also, nearby is my favorite patisserie and boulangerie, Aux Desirs de Manon on rue St. Antoine. The shop is long and narrow, with a glass pastry case on one side and a long narrow counter on the other. There are no stools. I stand eating my croissant au beurre and sipping my café express. My grand-daughter has asked me to bring her one thing, a croissant from Paris, a real croissant. In a bag on the counter packed for travel, I have four croissants au beurre. How can I not bring one for my husband, my son, and for me, too? A taste of Paris tomorrow morning on the blustery coast of Maine. 

Sunday At the Market

       It Sunday morning at the Market in Auvillar, France, and I cannot resist buying roasted chestnuts from a vendor who scoops them hot into a cone he fashions from newspaper. There is no price. One drops coins into a jar. The day is sunny but blustery. Behind the chestnut vendor a brazier glows. Men gather warming their hands.  In the air, the smell of more chestnuts roasting, and I am brought back to the chestnut vendors of my childhood standing on street corners in New York City. Perhaps, Mom, Dad and I have driven through the Lincoln Tunnel, come to see the Christmas show at Radio City, when Dad stops to buy a brown paper bag of sweet, warm roasted chestnuts. We peel and eat, as I am eating now, tasting time. 

Driving to Beaulieu sur Dordogne

Yesterday, driving my rental car, I traveled back roads from Auvillar, a village in south west France to Beaulieu sur Dordogne, a village north and east. I circled roundabouts, two, sometimes, three times in order to read road signs. I took a sharp left, drove for maybe five miles, feeling as if something was wrong. Pulling over, I read my map, doubled back, found my route. I was ready for a morning coffee, so following my son’s suggestion—Mom, get off the road. Have a coffee in a café. It’s the best—I followed signs into the village of Montoc.

            So there I was happily drinking a terrible espresso—believe me Starbucks is better—because I loved this village, loved this sunny terrace and the sibilant sounds of French surrounding me. I wrote in my journal, I day dreamed, when suddenly, I heard words in English, British English. Two women had settled at a table in front of me. A  third approached on the sidewalk, and all three began a lively discussion about bees and a sting.

I’d started out that morning fog and cold, and now at ten-thirty, the sun was strong, and this terrace was filling with men and women who came, as the French said, “to take a coffee.” A man in his forties with dark hair, a lock curling onto his forehead, sat alone a table reading La Depeche; three older men held court a table near the restaurant’s door greeting everyone who entered or left. “Bonjour.” “Ca va?” Volleys of rapid French and laugher.

 A couple crossed the terrace, found a table, she wearing tight jeans, tight tee shirt, a short jacket, he wearing jeans and a leather jacket. They were of a certain age.

            The conversation about bees continued, and I was struck with a realization—no cell phones, no computers, no one speaking with or texting with someone who was absent.  

A gray-haired man, solid and square with an open pleasant face approached the table of three British women. Directing his attention to one, a woman with curly gray hair, small and pleasing features, he wished her a happy birthday, then said, “Is this a birthday coffee? Are you having cognac in it?”

“No, I’m not,” she said.

“You should be, darling,” the man said, rounding the table to join them.

I didn’t want to leave this place where the music of conversation filled the air, where I was looking out at ancient buildings, where behind those buildings the countryside fell away into fields, where in front of those buildings flowers bloomed in pots, geranium and trailing vinca, where no one was plugged in or distracted by electronics. But I had a meeting in Beaulieu, and I needed to find my way.  

En Ce Moment

Late this afternoon in Paris, I accepted a ride with a stranger. As I crossed a street, guide book in hand, I saw a man, dark hair, sturdy looking, smoking and standing just behind a car parked at a corner. I needed directions, so I approached him. He held up a hand, signaling me to wait, while he knocked on the passenger side window of the black car. The window opened. A woman. She, too, must have been in her thirties, dark hair dark eyes, turned toward me as if to say, Who are you? What do you want? They spoke in French. She opened the door, took out her phone, looked at my guide book now in the man’s hands. She entered the name of the street I’d written, rue du bac. “Ooo la, la,” she said. Standing beside her, I read the time, twenty-five minutes, but to walk or to ride? I asked.

“To walk, yes. You must take the bus,” she said.

            I’m a walker. “That will be fine,” I said.

            The man spoke. She spoke. Both in rapid French I could not follow, but I believe, he was the one who suggested driving me, although she, the English speaker suggested I come with them.

 “Oh, no,” I said. “I can’t do that.”

            “We will take you,” she said.

            I shook my head. Waved my index finger like a metronome.

            “I am…,” she paused. “How shall I say? No problem.”

            “It’s not that,” I said. Although, partly it was that. How could I an older woman schooled against taking rides with strangers get in that car, but that’s exactly what I did, climbing into the back seat as the woman set her phone, now a GPS onto the dash. And we were off, driving through the maze of streets in Saint Germaine des Pres, the woman practicing her English, me practicing my French, both of us thoroughly enjoying each other’s company, the young man at the wheel. He was no longer smoking, and now I wondered was that why he stood outside the car? To smoke? My husband would do that. And thinking of my husband, I imagined his voice asking me about the car. What kind was it? As if make and model mattered. Maybe they did. Then, his second thought: "You did what?”           

 I was, as the French would say, en ce moment, in the moment. Call it luck, karma, serendipity or perhaps one person doing a favor for another, I was driving with strangers. It was the hour when work ends and evening begins. The sidewalk cafes were not full, but people sat outside at tables under awnings, sipping beer, coffee or wine. Inside the car, we exchanged stories, where I lived, if I had children. The man was from Portugal, the woman from Brazil. She has a first cousin in Los Angels. She plans to visit England, but her English is not so good any more. I tell her that in England, her English will return.

We pulled up in front of number 77 rue du bac. I offered a five franc note. Each refused, first the woman then man. I thanked them, then entered Dore Dore, a shop, where when I last visited Paris, I’d bought a pair of tights that became my favorite. This year, I bought three pair, telling the proprietors, a woman and her son, I’d been there before. And so we talked about where I was from and then about Romney and Obama, and we all want Obama to win, the French shopkeepers and I.

            Isn’t this what travel is all about, finding that essential part of yourself that connects you to others? And I understand I took a chance. Something terrible could have happened on that ride. Would I take a ride again? I don’t know. Only the moment will tell me.