Week 13:65. In the drawer is a box made of carved...

Jewelry, mostly old pieces I don’t wear anymore, and have nothing but sentimental value. They all cramped into this small wooden box that has no real value either but I still carry with me because it was given to me by my daughter years ago. She decorated it and on the top she wrote, in nicely fashioned calligraphy letters – mom. So, the box itself is more precious to me then its content.

Still as I sort through its content I come across few objects that tug at my heart. A gold pendent, shaped as Star of David that was given to me by my father, in my last visit to Israel, before his death and I am pretty sure was his indirect way to deliver a message. A green ribbon with a key attached to it, I check it for few minutes but nothing surfaces. It must have been important to be put in my box of treasured objects but I forgot why. One of these days I will have to follow this mystery but not today because the last object I find is the one grabbing a hold of me. It is a silver coin; it used to be one of my most treasured objects. 

It is not just any coin; this one is a replica of a Second Temple freedom coin, a silver half-shekel dating more than 2000 years. Second Temple Jewish officials had minted this ancient coin and others like it, in the first year of the revolt against the Romans in 66-67 AD. A branch with three pomegranates and the inscription, "Holy Jerusalem" adorns one side, the other decorated by a chalice is inscribed "Half-Shekel."

Growing up in Israel I am familiar with the relevant history of the time. The great revolt against the Romans brought in its wake enormous destruction and suffering. The issues emerging, surrender versus revolt, forever embedded in the fabric of Israeli culture and coming back to haunt the collective memory when talking about the Holocaust. “Masada will never fall again” was the motto I grew up with and referred to the last stronghold in the Judean desert, where a fistful of desperate man and women chose suicide as opposed to slavery. Rivaled by the survivalists who through the generations bent their heads and whispered “this too shall pass.”

As I am holding the coin in my hand I remember that this is ‘that’ week in Israel. The one starts with a special day set aside to remember those who were murdered during the Holocaust and those, like my father, who saved many lives, and ends with the Memorial Day to all the soldiers that lost their lives fighting.  This day will merge into the Independence Day celebrations in an impressive ceremony in Jerusalem.

 I know the spot where the ceremony will take place. It is a small hill in the middle of the national military cemetery, in front of a big black gravestone with only six engraved letters, HERZEL.  Benjamin Zeev Hertzel the man who dreamed the state of Israel and is now lying in the midst of endless lines of graves of young men and women.

 The formal ceremony that ends the saddest day and starts the happiest one always starts here. Soon two blue projected lights, signing the end of the ceremony, will shine in the sky. Two blue rays, will slowly move from side to side illuminating the city sky and then the fireworks will explode.

I look back at the coin, now warm in the palm of my hand, return it to my wooden treasure box and close the cover. Until next year…

Week 13, 63. To see a world in a grain of sand...

I love Babushka dolls for no reason that I can explain. Well, maybe because they always bring out the kid in me. The process of taking them apart, no matter how often I repeat it, is always fascinating and holding a grain of surprise. The principle is probably as old as time itself. Every time I open one doll another almost identical will show up, surprise!!! And so I go on and on until finally I get to the ‘baby’, the last and the only one that cannot be taken apart.

But this is by far not the end of the pleasures a babushka doll can offer. Now I can put it back together and piece by piece construct order into the world until the final one is done and the whole creation is lying in the palm of my hand, complete as it was the minute I started. Vibrant colors, smiling face, the wood so smooth and pleasant to the touch.

Being a retired educator I sometimes ponder the educational value of the Babushka doll as part of a wide category of stacking and nesting toys. But I know that while working on the same principle there is something innately and unexplainable different about this one.

It is possible to take the Babushka doll significance further like this sentence I found on the net;

“Called by many names, Matryoshka Dolls, Babushka Dolls, stacking Dolls, the Nesting Doll is a world renowned symbol of maternity, continuity, layers of personality, and of Russia itself.”

http://www.therussianstore.com/dolls/nesting-dolls

Or even expand further than that;

“I would like to offer an understanding of the way biblical prophecy works which is on the ‘Babushka Doll principle’ let me explain; The core of this “doll” is the initial utterance by the prophet and carries a literal meaning. He may not be aware that there is significance in his words beyond his present day...”

http://www.birthpangs.org/articles/prophetic/babushka_principle1.html

I am not sure that I can buy the deep philosophical theological approach but can’t avoid thinking about the allure of this simple wood creation that beyond pure childish pleasure gives me the satisfaction of moving from order to chaos and back again in minutes.

Week 13: 66. Loosely holding hands, not even aware of doing so, but, still, skin touching skin....

A man meets a woman. And the man says “Hi my name is…” and he thinks “I like the color of her hair and the way the sun plays in it and makes it looks like gold.

And the woman replies “Hi my name is… and she thinks, I like the shape of his mouth when he smiles.

And he says “nice to meet you…” and he thinks how beautiful are her eyes and how the color keeps changing in them turning them from blue to grey, like the ocean on a stormy day.

And the woman says “nice to meet you too…” and thinks his hair is so long, I like it like that.

And she extends her hand and he takes it in his. Her hand feels so small and smooth and he feels like holding it for a very long time. And she holds his hand, she is not even aware that she took it, and thinks, “It feels so strong and safe”.

 So little is being said, so much is already known.

Week 13, small to large, large to small

I think you know him, he might live in your own house, or you saw him next door, or in the school yard. He is only six years old and every morning he puts his heavy back pack on his back, almost as big as he is and starts his personal via-dolorosa.

Only six years old, he looks so small and fragile when he walks with the big, back breaking, back pack a little hunched with his eyes cast on the ground.

They picked the back pack together, with his mother, during summer vacation; he was happy then. He was looking forward to the start of the school year, all excited and full of anticipation. The back pack was the last of a whole long list of wonderful purchases. Colored pencils, regular pencils, fresh smelling brightly designed notebooks, a pencil holder and animal shaped erasers. They dedicated a full shopping day for the back pack. His mother was very particular about it. It had to be the right size, good quality material and a back support. They must have looked in at least five different stores before the right one was found. He got to choose the pattern from a pile of about fifteen. He took the mission very seriously and checked each one of them trying to imagine how they will look on his back, where everyone of his friends can examine it. Not an easy choice. It had to have just the right colors and designs to carry the message that he wanted to portray. “I am cool.”

He never imagined that the real battle will not be to impress his friends and the other kids in school but holding his own in the classroom.

From the beginning things did not go well.  Most of the time he couldn’t concentrate and spent the hours dreaming about all the things he will do once being outside and free again. He hated the endless time spent on trying to copy what seemed to him like shapeless forms from the blackboard. Reading made even less sense. The endless repetition of letters and sounds was tedious and boring. He did not get it. Of course he did what all the kids in his class did. He copied, he pretended to read what he copied but really just memorized the sounds that never seemed to stick together and create anything with meaning. By the end of the first month his beautiful notebooks were smeared with black lines pretending to be letters and his back pack got heavier and heavier for no apparent reason.

Education is important; he heard these words so many times. His mother kept repeating it and his father every time he came home late at night would say, “See, that’s because I never got a good education, you should look at it as a present.”

But what kind of a present it is when it is shoved down your throat. What kind of present it is when you are forced to take it and can’t politely decline and instead of it being wrapped in nice shiny paper and ribbons, it is laced with threats.

Public education, brilliant and humanistic, created so that every child, no matter how rich or poor will be exposed to the richness of human knowledge. At the basis of it the belief that if all people are created equal and have the right to pursue their happiness they should at least be equipped with the ability to read, write and think.

Indisputable, moving, awe-inspiring notion,

But also;

Public education, compulsory, highly structured, compartmentalized and punishable by law, this in itself is already alarming but the worst of all is one small devious word – equal.

Misleading because it sounds almost positive,

And yet so doubled edged,

Equal education for all, in reality robs every child of his right to be taught according to his unique needs, and qualities. Whoever thought that putting kids together according to age groups and teaching them the same stuff, at the same time, expecting the same results, was out of his mind not to say completely ignorant of how young minds work.

Ironically when equal does not work then, and only then, you ‘gain’ the right to become special, you earn the privileges of ‘special education’.  

• This kid lives in Israel where school children still carry their books to school on their backs. But I believe that he can be found anywhere with or without the backpack.

59/retake

59. The door slammed, and I never looked back.

We all have our personal idiosyncrasies and phobias, mine while maybe small, and insignificant is very real, I am afraid of revolving doors.

 Big or small, made of glass or metal, the ones you need to push by hand or even worth the one that have a life of their own and move (so quietly) on their own.

It always feels like a test devised by some cruel anonymous hand. Every time I encounter one I need to stop, take a deep breath and collect myself. I cast a quick look to each side maybe, maybe there is another way, and then, and only then, when I am convinced this is my only option, I go deeper into myself and pull at my inner strength. Like a worrier before the moment of contact I watch for the right instant and step in.

Panic,

Will I be locked inside, doomed to go around and around in this clever web, while others, on the outside watch, point, and sneer? Those few seconds when I am feeling utterly helpless and exposed seem like eternity.

And then I see the other side,

OK, I can do this, I did it before. It’s just a matter of precise timing. Pick the right moment; unglue my feet and walk away that is all. I throw a quick look back, behind my shoulder, and see the glass wing approaching, ready to close on me. Another deep breathe, maybe even a short prayer. I command my left leg to move forward as the rest of me lugs behind. I am out.

Ah, the relief.

In the last second I almost yield to the urge to send my hand and slam it but then I remember this saying; “Whoever said nothing is impossible never tried to slam a revolving door.”

So while I am still on a winning streak, I force a shaky smile, raise my head, and walk away.

Week 12/ prompt 59. The door slammed, and I never looked back.

It always feels like a test devised by some cruel anonymous hand. Every time I encounter one I need to stop, take a deep breath and collect myself. I cast a quick look to each side maybe, maybe there is another way, and then, and only then, when I am convinced this is my only option, I go deeper into myself and pull at my inner strength. Like a worrier before the moment of contact I watch for the right instant and step in.

Panic,

Will I be locked inside, doomed to go around and around in this clever web, while others, on the outside watch, point, and sneer? Those few seconds when I am feeling utterly helpless and exposed seem like eternity.

And then I see the other side,

OK, I can do this, I did it before. It’s just a matter of precise timing. Pick the right moment; unglue my feet and walk away that is all. I throw a quick look back, behind my shoulder, and see the glass wing approaching, ready to close on me. Another deep breathe, maybe even a short prayer. I command my left leg to move forward as the rest of me lugs behind. I am out.

Ah, the relief.

In the last second I almost yield to the urge to send my hand and slam it but then I remember; “Whoever said nothing is impossible never tried to slam a revolving door.”

So while I am still on a winning streak, I force a shaky smile, raise my head, and walk away.

Week 12: taking risks/ prompt 57. My summer vacation....

Summer

***

Hiring new stuff,

Retraining the old

Spring cleaning galore

Fixing and sprucing up

Restocking the supplies

Refreshing all schedules

A flood of reservations

And last minute cancelations

The toilet in room 2 is clogged

The bed in room 5 creaks

The curtain rod in 17 just broke

The Wi-Fi too slow

The mattress too soft,

The mattress too firm

The window doesn’t latch

The air-condition wouldn’t hush

It’s too dark outside

The light comes up too early

The neighbor next door so noisy

What, only twenty channels

No swimming pool

What are we to do

Maybe write a blog

Cause’ it’s rainy all day long

No brown sugar

No bananas either,

I wish there was honey

At least some peanut butter

I’m lactose intolerant

Gluten sensitive too

Where is that damn ice

Didn’t I pay a full price

Couldn’t sleep a wink

That peeping sound got me mad

Couldn’t sleep a wink

The dog next door barked

Couldn’t, yes we know…

Huddled under the blanket all night

The hyenas were laughing in the dark,

I think I saw a mice…

So much nature

Too much nature,

Give me some shopping malls

Forests and lakes and ocean

And ocean and forests

And lakes,

Something interesting for the kids

Maybe a mall

***

The leaves are turning

But it is still raining

How long will it take

Can’t find it on the GPS

Thanks for your hospitality

Motel with such quaint personality

Have to leave, bummer

Until next summer

***

Fall