Note from Jane: this was written in May 2011, soon after Passover. It’s a holiday centered in the home, not in synagogue services.  This year was a particularly strange Passover for me.

I am walking up the steps outside of my old synagogue. This is how I know I’m somewhere between dreaming and awake: I haven’t been back here in over a decade. I haven’t seen this place since the inevitable repair and reconstruction that has taken place. I imagine freshly painted wrought iron gates, repaired and refreshed doors and new windows. I open the heavy wooden doors, at once nostalgically hurried and hesitant. Wondering, is the white marble plaque with my great grandfather’s name (building committee and former president, if it matters) still on the wall? 

Ahead would be the social hall, through more solid wooden doors.  Kitchen to the right.  Upstairs, is the sanctuary.  It was truly my sanctuary, for a short time. Wide, curving stairs to the left, and to the right. Up the right staircase I go. Substantial, smooth, polished wooden banisters; my hand fits right into the memory/grooove it used to trail up, on so many Saturday mornings. I linger on these stairs, not certain I am ready to walk into the sanctuary. I want the faded old red carpeting on the stairs, so there it is my dream.  I square my shoulders, take a quick breath, and look past the open door into the sanctuary. 

I can imagine the newer, brighter, cleaner and finally restored sanctuary – I know the renovations have remained true to the more than century-old sanctuary – but I choose to remember the lovely shabbiness of that red carpet, the scuffed, dusty floor. The worn, softly squared tops of dark wooden, straight-backed pews. They are smooth with age and wear – the deeply burnished, unassuming kind of wear that old wood furniture grows into over a long, long time. All that sanding and polishing never made them smooth enough along the bottom of the seat, that you wouldn’t snag your tights if you weren’t careful.  I think of the hours a few people spent moving buckets to catch rain; trying to keep the ancient boiler chugging along with gum and paper clips; patching holes; polishing the pews; lovingly changing out the velvet bima covers, the curtains on the Ark, the Torah dressings… it was a labor of love, struggling to keep an old, broken building from looking as falling apart as it really was. We knew how beautiful it was, and could be again. Painted. Roof fixed. Boiler functional.  

The sun shines through the rose window, which in my mind is still covered by a not quite translucent plastic shield, protecting what could still be protected and saved. One congregant, an artist, made it her mission to lovingly restore that stained glass. Each completed piece was (and still is) a celebration. Caught in the sun beams are a gazillion tiny dust particles, hanging in the air. This air is palpable: the dust, the silence, the familiar feeling of over a hundred years of tangible prayers residing in the space in this building, in this space in my heart. 

The very first time I walked into this sanctuary I felt it, a concentrated feeling of holiness. Without really knowing what it was: kavannah – consciously intentional and mindful prayer. Old whispers of meditation and devotion hang in the air, fused with the dust particles. Over a hundred years of Shabbat, holidays, simcha and loss. (I was recently in Israel, where anything that is slightly more than a hundred years old is not so old. Perspective. We lack historical perspective here, sometimes)  

Right after I was born, my grandfather gave me my Hebrew name here. I felt my grands and unknown great-grands encouraging me, pushing me forward when I returned as an adult. Are they still here, quietly wondering where I’ve been? Right away, I was someplace I knew intimately, where my family had been. I belonged, from the first moment. I didn’t yet realize what I’d come to find. It quickly became a part of my weekly, sometimes daily life. This place wasn’t memory, back then. It was a regular, consistent, unquestioned presence. There was a rhythm and order infused into my sense of time, by the cyclical Jewish calendar.  

I walk towards the bima and the Holy Ark. I see the plain, unrestored windows that you had to shove really hard to open and close. I know there are new stained glass windows, with familiar and new names on them. It’s sad, my father and I never donated a window to honor and memorialize my family. Also sad, because the cheese stands alone: I am the last Jew in my birth family. Not so many years ago, I was here every Shabbat morning, taking an aliyah, walking around chatting, learning the service by rote because I didn’t really read Hebrew so well (that’s still coming along, tortuously slowly). How did I move away from that routine – a pretty big, important piece of myself – to a rare Saturday morning appearance at my (will it always be?) new shul?  

If I look up now, there will be more tears. It will be new and fixed and shiny. I am breathing, inhaling this space into my lungs, into the memory of my cells.  I look for the tiny brass plaque on the left front-facing pew, the one that let the world know this was where my father’s grandfather had sat. (Really? Who wants to sit up front? Facing the congregation, no less? The pressure to behave, to sit with import and gravity… this was always too great an imaginative task for me. I take my Judaism, Shabbat, holidays and prayer, with a large side of socializing, thank you very much).  I hope it’s still here, I vaguely remember a donation my father made before he died, ensuring the little brass plaque would still be here. Which is silliness, really. I am so not a plaque person – give because you love or because it means something, because it will create or serve or save. Who cares if your name is there forever? A name on a wall, window or pew… Why do I find myself caring about that pew, about the absence of a family window?   It’s my own diminishing connection.?  I turn around to face the empty sanctuary.  Look way up at the seats in the "women’s balcony".  I know these paintings on the walls and ceilings. They are finally brightened, restored from the faded, peeling images. I remember this view, looking up and back at the ghosts of congregants from the early 1900s, and my own ghosts from the last years of that century. Convergence and a little synchronicity. 

I open my eyes, awake now. My face is wet, and my breath is rapid. I’m lying in my bed, in my small rural town, an hour away from my old synagogue. I have a synagogue here that I also love. It plays an important part in my weekly, occasionally daily, life. It is my now-shul, but it exists for me in a different way that I am still figuring out. My old shul is where I (re)discovered my Judaism. Where I learned more than I ever knew there was to know, more than I ever guessed would become meaningful and relevant to me.  My then Shabbat observance: candles on Friday night, gently placed into the sink when I headed out (on a date? with friends?) but never blown out. Getting up Saturday morning, sometimes hung over.  Who cared back then, the headache would wear off before the Torah service began, ha!  Then the the walk to shul, my father’s blue velvet tallit bag in hand. An integral part of my Shabbat ritual. I loved that walk, especially in the warm sunshine, but also in the rain and snow. I loved being there, at services each Saturday morning. With friends, with prayer, with nosh afterward… We’d linger and it would be 1 or 2 pm before anyone headed out. Some would head home to observe more Shabbat, to take a peaceful and luxuriously delicious nap, or enjoy another meal. Some were off to various, decidedly not Shabbat-observant activities. I would walk out through the heavy synagogue doors, into the rest of my weekend.  Those hours were mine, they were part of the rhythm of my week, each month, all year. 

All of this has woken me up. How did I get here, from that place – to this place? I am so removed from the rhythm of those Saturdays; even Shabbat candles are infrequent.  Kabbalat Shabbat services are lovely but sometimes lonely, fraught with the tension of my children’s behavior and my husband’s absence. How do I have kids who did not grow up being at shul each Saturday? (OK, I know how. I didn’t bring them). In my house, we are cognizant of this huge hole that exists. This dream of my old shul… remembering an alternate future: a family heading out from our funky old brownstone, walking through the park to shul on a sunny Saturday morning. I chose a different walk, from a different house, to different destinations. What we hold onto, and what we let go, shapes who we become. There are always new choices to make. Should you, can you, how can you not, honor what is left behind when making choices?  

Too many things have become tenuous. One is the lack of any consistent Jewish ritual in my life.  It’s not about God so much, not really. (I think? Probably? Maybe?) But there is a pull towards something larger, something substantial and ancient, part of so much history and countless people through time. It doesn’t touch the others in my family. That aches. Sometimes, like this morning (and it is now truly morning, the sky is lightening and the alarm went off, it’s 6, I’ve got to go make the day begin) missing all of this is intense. The tenuousness is acute.  This hole gets bigger, and is wearing smooth at the edges, like the polished tops of the pews. The edges are not quite as pointed and sharp as they had been. Except… at these times: when I miss what was, what I was. I love my family, with all my heart, to the ends of the universe. If I let it, that hole would turn jagged, and sharp. I tread with care, so as not to scrape up against those edges. There is only moving forward, which is fragile and tricky. Time to get up and start my day. It’s Friday.

We started out on our journey to Yad VaShem before we even left the hotel. "Calendar and Memory: An Introduction to the place of the Holocaust in Israeli Consciousness".  It was a riveting presentation about the emotional and philosophical shift of how Israelis thought about Holocaust survivors, from victimhood to accuser to hero. 

The speaker was an educator, Rachel Korazim, an Israeli woman  born on a Kibbutz after WW2.  Her mother was from Budapest, and had managed to survive the war.   I should write more about her illuminating discussion – it gave me fresh insight into post WW2 Jewish thinking about the Holocaust and how could God have let it happen. And about what an engaging storyteller she was.  Instead,  I’ll tell you what happened:

As Rachel was talking, I was sitting there, listening and then watching very intently. The more she spoke, the more animated and expressive she was, the more I began to realize she looked very much like my mother. My mom was born in 1936,  in Brooklyn.  Rachel was born after the war, on a kibbutz.   They looked like they could have been sisters, or cousins.  

And that was my "Aha! I’m in Israel, now I get it" moment. I’ve been to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in DC.   I was struck by the pre-war photos, the familiarity of the faces in those photos.  The pictures that show what each person really looked like, before the horrors of the war, before they disappeared.  Those people look familiar.  They look like people I know, or could know. 

But this woman who was speaking to me is alive, she is living in Israel.  Looking so like the face I haven’t seen in almost 20 years.  I’m here, in a country where Jewish people came from many different places, but ultimately from the same place…  Right.  Here.

My "Aha, I’m in Israel" moment wasn’t at the Wall, although I get that, too.   (personally, in a very Jane way, I was a more than a little miffed at having to shove off to the side, to the women’s section.  I knew ahead of time, but was still cranky about it.)

It almost was, but then it wasn’t,  at a scenic overlook, where our tour bus stopped, and I took in the big view, the hills, the city of Jerusalem.  The hills that generation after generation of Jews wanted to return to.  I also get that, but the view wasn’t it either.   

My moment was looking into the face of this woman who looked so much like my mother.   Did I cry for my mother,  or for the realization of where I was,  or for myself?  For each.

We left soon after for Har Hazikaron, the Mountain of Remembrance.  This is where Yad Vashem is located – Israel’s main Holocaust museum and education center.    I was already a mess, how would I get through the museum?  

There is too much to say, so much that has been said, more eloquently and knowledgeably, about Yad VaShem – it’s not the purpose of this post.  We had a frustrating time restriction, so I tried to focus less on historical facts, more on the video testimonies, the photos, the stories of individual people who survived or died in the Holocaust.   One woman from my group asked if I had relatives who’d been in the Holocaust.  Since both sets of my grandparents were born here in the US, and their parents came to the US at fairly early ages, any relatives who still remained  in Europe at that time were fairly distant ones.   A name,  Isabella Leitner came to mind for the first time in years.  Isabella was a child when she and her sisters were taken to Auschwitz.  She escaped during a forced march.  She wrote a book (one of several), called Fragments of Isabella, that was considered for a Pulitzer.  I received a signed copy of that for my Bat Mitzvah.   I hadn’t thought of her in a long time.

I somberly and gingerly continued on my way through the museum.  Time was almost up, I was just about half-way through.  Argh.  So I headed toward the end of the exhibits.  On the left, was a darkened, small, rectangular gallery with a stone bench in the center.  The walls looked like stone as well.  On the darkened walls were dimly lit letters, in Hebrew and English.  Every few moments, the letters brightened, to create illuminated quotations.  They would fade up, and after a moment, fade away.  I entered just as one was fading away, too late to read it.  The next one faded up.  I read it, and literally gasped at the name under the quote.  Isabella Leitner.  

I’m not making it up.  A shiver ran through me.  Another shock through my body.  I wanted to scream, "ok, I get it, I get it already! Enough!"  Again, with the "Aha!" moment.  The connection.  The history of a mostly scattered people who came back together.  

What are the chances that I’d walk into that room and these poetic words from a distant relative would flash up on the wall?   Out of all the words that shine up on the walls of that room in Yad VaShem,  all day, every day.  That of all the museum visitors, who walk in and out of that gallery all day long, it would flash up there at the moment I walked in?   There are no coincidences?   What else can I say?

I wish I could give you the quote verbatim – I’ve searched and searched online, and can’t find it.   I was so shaken at that moment,  that within a few more minutes, I couldn’t pull the her words out of my head properly.  It was something to the effect of, "we were not dead, but not really alive" or the reverse, "we were not really alive, but not yet dead"…  I wish I’d had the presence of mind to read it more carefully and mentally tuck it away.   

As if I weren’t already a mess from earlier that morning.  All day, you could have gently poked me with your little finger, and I’d have fallen over.  I’m not usually a cryer.  I was a weepy mess the rest of the afternoon.  

And then the pieces I’d fallen to,  got glued back together.  

Friday, early afternoon, before Shabbat.   We were at Machaneh Yehudah- the open air market, or shuk.  Jerusalem was in the weekly mad rush before everything comes to a screeching halt Friday evening.   Our bus stopped, we poured out, and I found myself in the middle of this cacophony of voices, scents, sights, and what felt like a gazillion racing Israelis.  Even for most secular Jews,  Friday night means dinner with family or friends.   Who need to shop for their Friday night meal.  The market was a surging swell of people rushing, shopping, preparing for Shabbat.  Bread, fruits and vegetables, fish and meat, sweets, pastries…  A kippah from The Kippah Man, or a silver menorah from the next stall.  I typically react in two ways in this sort of sensory saturation: I either plunge in and enjoy, or I get seriously overloaded.  I was a already a little overloaded, from my emotional morning.  So I plunged in.  Lost my friends (again, sigh) but knew where I had to be in an hour (or so?).  I tried to peruse the offerings, but this was not the time or place for a meandering shopping stroll.  What would ground me in the middle of this?  Shopping.  Bought a kippah for my self, one for a friend who just converted.  What else would ground me?  Food.  Specifically, lunch.  A delicious frozen fruit smoothie, and a spicy falafel pita, eaten while perched on a low stool in a small spot of warm sunshine.  Watching the chaos worked better for me than wading through it.  I was glad I’d plunged in, and I found my friends, too.  (just in time to buy a few ruggelah.  Yummm…)   

[note from Jane: if you follow the links in the above paragraph, they'll take you to some beautiful photographs of the open air market - can't speak to the prose in between,  but the pictures are so evocative.  Enjoy them  - but after you finish this post! ha...]

After a quick visit to the Wall, we reconvened at the hotel.  Washed up, dressed for Shabbat dinner.  But first a few of us headed out for a Kabbalat Shabbat service.  (This is the Friday night service that welcomes the Sabbath Bride, and ushers in the special time and space that is Shabbat).  We went to Beit Knesset Moreshet Yisrael, a Masorti-Conservative shul.  Still regaining myself, it was comforting to find my familiar siddur in the pews.  Rabbi Adam Frank (originally from Atlanta) gave us a very warm welcome.  Before the Shabbat service, the Mincha (weekday afternoon) service is recited.  The prayers I knew so well grounded me a little bit, after a very unsettling day.  I began to relax,  after the fast-paced (but amazing) week.  After this, comes Kabbalat Shabbat.  

The prayers for this service always sound special to me.  There is a mitzah, or commandment, called hiddur mitzah.  This means, take what you are obligated to do, and make it as special, or beautiful,  as you can.  For me, this means pretty Shabbat candlesticks, a nice challah or matzah cover,  a special chanukkiah (Chanukah menorah), or wearing something nice to shul on a Friday night. (A fun or pretty top over nicer jeans, ha ha).  You get it.  And the tunes to the prayers of the Kabbalat Shabbat service seem to fufill this mitzvah.    

The gorgeous voice of Ahuva Batz, the Schlichat Tzibur ("emissary of the congregation" in Hebrew; a cantor or chazzan) soared upward in an indescribable way.  Her voice was joyful, shimmering round and full.   Her prayers sounded so middle eastern to me; different than home. Ahuva Batz sounded just like a Shabbat service in Israel should sound.  It was new, it was familiar, it was beautiful.  I could breathe again, and the fragility of my day fell off of me, as I lifted up.  

Aha!  I’m in Israel, and I definitely get it.  

Each night,  some members of our group would head down to the very lovely lobby at the Inbal Hotel in Jerusalem.  There, we’d meet for cocktails and to talk about all the things and places we’d seen and learned, the people we’d met.  What to order, what to order?  I tried a dirty martini, but that didn’t seem quite right.  Neither did a margarita.   I decided upon a Mojito.   Of course, there in the Holy Land, in Yerushalayim,  they had to be called Mochitos  (emphasis on the "ch", the guttoral, throaty sound used when trying to sound more authentic).

We’d sit, sipping our cocktails, watching our "favorite show".  Scattered across the comfy tables and chairs next to the lobby, sat several very young, variously observant religious men and women.  They were engaged in an arranged date/look-see/mating ritual called a Shidduch. The hotel lobby was the perfect location for what we came to call the Shidduch Dance.   These young couples would be sitting discreetly across from one another, usually in front of glasses of tea, or water.   Sometimes a soda. (Was this was to spare the young man the expense of a more costly beverage, or the hardship this might cause a young, perpetual student?)  The light was flattering, and the public location ensured that neither partner could be seen as having been compromised in any way.  It was like watching a movie, or perhaps a game show.  Good people watching.  Which couples sat across the table from one another?  Who sat on a couch, but at the far, opposite ends?  One couple daringly sat on a sofa, temptingly close to one another.  Which couples might be a good match?  Who was definitely not enjoying themselves at all?  What did it all mean?

One night we saw a very religious-loooking young man walking very quickly, almost angrily, away from the lobby.   Had the evening bombed out?  Had he been somehow mislead by the Shadchen (matchmaker)?  Did his date say something that was, perhaps a deal breaker (…something along the lines of, "you know, I once hooked up with this really cute Australian goy in Eilat"). We’ll never know. 

The next night, there was a very cute couple, and as the night progressed, we were all rooting for them.  They were both so adorable, all smiles.   Their conversation was going nicely, nothing seemed awkward or stilted.   Even their body language, while discreet and not at all suggestive or forward,  signaled that things might be a go.   She’d even taken her pretty but sensible shoes off, under the small coffee table. Was she trying to entice him with the reinforced toe of her opaque, flesh colored tights? Or was she just feeling very comfortable? At one point, she actually (perhaps unconciously?) ran her toe along the leg of the table – surely a good sign.

Typical Jane story:  At the end of one evening, the last of us were about to head back to our rooms for a little sleep before the next activity filled day.  Now, anyone who knows me well,  knows that at times I can be, shall we say,  less than discrete.  I’m that person who, will be saying something sarcastic (but not mean) about you.  And of course it turns out you are three feet behind me.  (well, not YOU, but you get it)  So in typical Jane mode,  there I was, getting up out of my very comfy chair.  In a clear,  not as quiet as I’d intended, post-Mochito voice,  I suggested to my friends they look around to "see which couples haven’t folded yet:"  It was pretty funny, in a "who’s still standing" sort of way.  My companions shushed me,  both bemused and slightly cringing.  Luckily, the young man seated closest to us smirked.  Phew!  (it was really one of the only times something like that slipped out during the trip – a difficult task for me –  but my foot stayed out of my mouth pretty much for the duration of the trip).  

There but for the grace of people who share my dark, slightly twisted sense of humor go I.   

Just for the record, Landeaux and I were set up on a blind date.  So, how much friendly teasing can I really get away with? You say Shidduch Dance, I say blind date.  But let’s not call the whole thing off…

Part Five

Part Five  12.15.10

This was the day I went to the Western Wall for the first time.  But first we had a tour of Jerusalem’s Old City, including shops and the Christian Quarter.  We wandered around the beautiful Church of the Sepulchre, and entered what many believe is Jesus’ tomb.

There is a special quality surrounding religious holy sites, regardless of the religion.  Is it echoed off the spirituality of the religious visitors?  Does spirituality surround and sink into the walls of places of prayer, after decades, or hundreds or thousands of years?  You know how you walk into certain churches, or synagogues – especially older ones – and you just feel it?  (I’ve never been in a mosque, Bhuddist or Hindu temple, so I can’t speak to those.  I wish I could)  Call it spirituality, call it holiness, that feeling was all over the Old City.  

Then we walked over to the Wall.  Some people had led me to expect a great emotional moment, being there.  Others admitted that it might be a little anti-climactic, that the swell of emotion wouldn’t necessarily happen.  Here is what did happen: I thought it was pretty cool – because it’s ancient, because it’s central to Jewish history.  Because Jews have come there to pray for millenia.  But it’s a place.  We don’t worship places, right?    I’m glad I got to put my hand on the Wall, and recite the Sh’ma.  But I had to sort of shove my way in to do so.  I was sorry I’d not thought to scribble a prayer to stick into a crevice – I thought of several once I was there, sigh.  And I was distracted by the amazing people watching.  And there you are, in front of this amazing, ancient site, and what do you see before you?  Plastic lawn chairs.  Welcome to Israel!  

The biggest distraction was one I’d girded myself for, but it still really annoyed me.   In order to get anywhere near the Wall, let alone touch it and/or say a prayer… I had to place myself in the Women’s Section.  Smaller, and at the time I was there, in the shade, while the men were still praying in sunshine.  Sigh… The separation, the inequality of men and women in my religion is a big problem for me.  And even though I will only participate in a synagogue that is fully egalitarian, the inequality perpetuated by those more religious than myself is awful to me.  That the inequality is perpetuated by those who choose not to practice Judaism in a manner that allows for societal progress and modernity; who justify that by reading the Torah without refreshing interpretation,  is anathema to me.  (which brings me back to that internal disconnect again, sigh…)

After experiencing the Wall, we were led through the Rabinnic Tunnels – these are  under the Temple Mount.  They were fascinating – layer upon layer of different societies, different eras.  Streets, rooms, cisterns, winding pipes large enough to squeeze through.  Sort of like walking through your Ancient Civ textbook.  

Lunch, back on the bus, onto the highway – saw the other (in)famous wall – and through a check point.  Our guide (who was fabulously informative and entertaining – and not too shy about her opinions, which was also informative and entertaining!) made sure to tell us we were on the other side of the Green Line.  Destination: Gush Etzion.  This area is a group of Jewish villages, south of Jerusalem, has been repeatedly inhabited by Jews since the 19th century. There was a multi-sensory presentation honoring the previous settlements of Gush Etzion and their defenders during the War of Independence in 1948.  This was followed by a short discussion led by Rabbi Ari Berman.  Rabbi Berman left a tremendously successful life as one of the top rabbis in New York City, to make aliyah, to come and live in the (post 1967 War) Etzion Bloc.    

The area is also known for the vineyards.  We stopped at the small, boutiquey Gush Etzion Winery.  Comparing the biblical art of winemaking, and modern winemaking, as brought back to the area decades ago by the Rothschilds. Wine tasting, wine purchasing… It was the perfect late afternoon activity, and another thing to learn about this historied area.   

We ended our busy day with an evening screening of two short films  created at the Ma’aleh Film Scool,  back in Jerusalem.  

12.16.10
Massada was next on our itinerary. After a crazy-early breakfast, we headed south through the Judean desert, towards the Dead Sea to Massada.  Seeing the Jordanian border on the opposite side of the Dead Sea was a reminder of how closely these countries are bound together, and why everyone has to, at some point, play nicely together. 

After a very quick stop at an Ahava (Dead Sea mud and sea salt skin care) outlet, there we were. To climb or not to climb, that was the question.  Our tour guide begged us not to – she had to keep us on a tight schedule.  A few people climbed,  I wanted to but wimped out because I did not want to be the person holding up the whole group at the end of the visit.  Plus, I’d have missed her guided tour on top, which we reached via cable car, which was fun and had a great view.   Not far from where we stepped off the cable car, was an old rounded doorway, at the top of the steps of the snake path, where the climbers walked through to join us.  For the sake of a good story, of course I took a picture, in that doorway, looking tired but victorious .  

Again, more ancient history, lots of cool rocks, and a deep blue sky.  Just kidding about the rocks, sort of.  We saw a lot of historical rocks in Israel.  And I took way too many pictures of the rosy-toned rocks against the bright blue sky.  The structures around and including King Herod’s castle (his vacation condo?  He may have never been there, and I doubt it was a time share) showed the height the ruins had been excavated at, and above a blue line showed the estimated heights of walls and structures.  

Discussion about the idea of Massada in the minds of the Jewish people.  For ages, Massada represented a heroic myth of rebel Jewish soldiers’ self sacrificing last stand protecting the ancient Jewish nation, and their religion to the Romans .  Today, that idea has begun to ebb out of Israeli’s minds.  With no actual recorded historical evidence, the story relies heavily upon the unreliable and arguably biased writings of the Roman toady, Josephus.  The story doesn’t appear in religious Jewish writings.  (Perhaps because the story is one of no way out, a death myth?  And Judaism is life affirming?)  Today, the story has been revisted to emphasize the resistance part of the story, and downplay the self-sacrificing suicide part of the story.  Massada remains one of the world’s most popular tourist sites.   

In a bit of geographical back-pedaling, we headed to Beersheva.  This sparsely populated area lies on the periphery of Israel, (the Galilee, the Negev).  We met up with young men and women of the Ayalim Project in Beersheva.  There they work with at-risk communities, particularly children.  They showed us garbage filled, dilapidated buildings they’d cleaned up, restored and converted into attractive, livable space.   They reminded me a little of one of those HGTV programs about "flipping" rundown buildings.  Actually, and more seriously, they reminded me a little of Americorps.  After an amazing  home cooked meal that couldn’t be topped by any Israeli caterer, we engaged in a wonderful conversation about their organization and it’s goals.  What is the meaning of volunteerism?  (particularly interesting to a group of community leaders).  What is community, and what does it mean to develop and re-establish communities in the Negev?  In the context of tzedakah and tikkun olam, these kids are tangibly living their idealist principles by working to revitalize this part of Israel.  

We ended our day at a Community Center in Beersheva, where they are trying to hang on to the youth of the area, making it a desirable place to live now, and set down roots later, after school and army.

There was so much to take in and absorb.  The time for refection took place on the bus, between stops, or at the sleepy end of the day.  But these experiences demand thoughtful, careful consideration.  I was amazed at how much could be squeezed into two days, and how the experiences of the trip so far seemed to build upon one another.  

Photos: DSK

 Next stop: Yemin Orde, a residential school for children.  We rode up through the Carmel Mountains, where fires had ripped through Northern Israel in the weeks before our trip.  Many were killed and injured in that fire, and it thrust into the spotlight the lack of adequate preparation for such an emergency.  Quite simply, and tragically, Israel was not ready.  Many efforts in Israel, the US, and many other countries are in being put into place to ensure future readiness.

We approached Yemin Orde with the sea on one side, the Carmel on the other…  This is a children’s village, it’s residents are children who come from dysfunctional families, orphanages, and some are refugees.   They live in the village, go to school, and pull their lives together in the middle of a big family. They always haves home, a place to go back to, and maintain a connection to. The village follows rules of Halacha (Jewish law), but the religious aspect is based more on spirituality than the rigorous rules of religious Judaism. 

The village fell to the ravages of the fire.  Many buildings burnt to the ground.  The alumni of the village, who always remain a part of their village family, who always have a place to call home, responded quickly and with great energy. They came immediately to begin the work of clean up and re-building. We were there the week after the fires. We saw the usually green hills bared, and charred. There was still a faint burnt scent in the air.   Clean up work had already begun, and there was even a TV crew filming. (we were later told that no one had access to the school during that time – we were able to see it and the devastation during the early clean up).

It was incredible to listen to Haim Perle, who became a renowned educator because of his work with the children of Yemen Orde. You have to wonder how some of this would translate to the US, where so many kids are never given this sort of opportunity of a new life, with this kind foundation of love and spiritual grounding.  I have some fairly conflicted thoughts about how these kids are eased right into a fairly halachic setting, but also see how this might provide a basic structure to their lives,  a rhythm to their days, weeks and months.  Religion or not, we could learn a lot from this school.  It’s very different than the US foster system, which more or less spits kids out of the system at 18, leaving them to sink or swim.   Yemin Orde grads always have a support system in place, to come back to and call home. 

Lunch at the very pretty Benyumina Vineyard, and then, onward to Jerusalem.

   photos: DSK

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Part Five

A jam-packed day. A seminar, about re-branding Israel. We spoke about the relationship between American Jews and Israel, particularly organized American Jewry.
Next stop was Hechal Ha’atzmaut, Independence Hall. This is the site where the State of Israel was proclaimed, in Tel Aviv.
The Palmach Museum was next, an amazing sensory exhibit narrating the struggles of the Palmach soldiers (elite precursors of the Haganah, who were in turn, the precursors of the IDF) who fought before and during the founding of the State of Israel.
Lunch was a seemingly impromptu stop (although I doubt anything on this tour will be truly impromptu – I am fairly sure that this stop was chosen for it’s lack of shopping opportunity –  because we are on a tight schedule) where we quickly munched on falafel, shwarma, and schnitzel.  

Back on the bus, to Wolfson Hospital, home of Save A Child’s Heart. This organization brings children from all over the world, from countries that lack pediatric pulmonary surgeons, to Israel, where the children receive life saving surgery. SACH is a non-profit, the children receive the medical services, transportation for themselves and a guardian (for the young children) at no cost. many of the kids are from the Palestinian Authority, from Jordan, Iraq, Morocco, the Americas, Asia, all over…  The relationship between their home country and Israel is a non-issue. This group of doctors and other volunteers is one of the most perfect examples of Tikkun Olam (the mitzvah or commandment, to repair the world, one of the strongest tenets of Judaism).   

 The funny (or not so funny) part of today’s story is what happened after dinner. Some of us chose to walk rather than take the bus, to dinner. It was a great chance to walk along the Mediterranean Sea, with post-storm, salty-spray waves breaking well above the sea walls onto our walkway. After a delicious dinner (again, many small dishes of vegetables, spreads, this time including meats), some of us again chose to walk back to the hotel. So we’re walking along, popped into a bakery with gorgeous pastries. Walking along, everyone stopped on a corner, so I took the opportunity to buy a Diet Coke (without actually walking into a store, mind you) but after I finished paying, my group was gone. Seriously. Gone. So there I am, on a street alone, not sure if I’m in Jaffa or Tel Aviv, and I do not speak Hebrew. After a moment or so of mild panic, I realized that  no one around me  spoke English.  So much for directions back to my hotel. "Head back towards the sea and bang a right" just didn’t seem particularly wise.  
I met a trio of very helpful Polish (and very cute, young) guys who found me a cab, and I went back to the hotel. I realized someone from my group might be out there looking for me.   One man in my group was hanging out in the lobby. Ironically enough, he was the same man who taken to joking that he had to keep an eye on me, so I didn’t get lost   (apparently I am so flaky, I engender that sort of response in people)  Turns out, that was a self-fulfilling prophecy if there ever was one! We tried to reach a few others in our group to let them know I was ok, safe in the hotel. Turns out… No one realized I was missing! The bus people thought I was with the walking people, who, in turn, thought I was with the bus people. (that’s their story, and they were sticking to it!)  I’d have been better off slinking up to my room, and no one would have been the wiser.  I’m sure I won’t be living this down for the rest of the trip. And it’s only Tuesday, sigh…

Part One

Part Two

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Part Three

Fitful sleep over the Atlantic… (what a surprising sort of opening sentence for a Jane post!   Jane has, sadly, not crossed the Atlantic in such a long time!). But here I am, on an airplane headed to Israel. 4:00 am at home, 11:00 am in Tel Aviv.   Sitting between a very secular Jew and an Orthodox man.  Can one be a very secular Jew? A little bit secular? Perhaps you either are, or you are not…  Also questions regarding the shades of gray regarding Orthodox Jews, there are so many ways to be religiously observant.   (so then why are so many religious and/or not religious people so very absolute?)  He very kindly educated me on how one would know the proper time to pray the morning service while suspended so many miles above the ocean. (it involves knowing the time zone you will be in at the proper time…which involves math, not particularly Jane’s forte).

So I’m on my way to Israel…for the first time. Everybody asks that question. "Is this your first time?" (I guess I’m popping my Israel cherry, so to speak, an important event in the life of a Jewish person). The Orthodox man next to me? His eyes widened in surprise when I told him this is my first trip.
My eyes had widened in even wider surprise when I was asked to go. One day, late this past summer, my Rabbi asked me if I’d possibly be able to make childcare arrangements for the kids and be part of a tri-county Jewish community trip. A Young Leadership trip. (Jane is neither young, nor a leader… Discuss amongst yawselves!) It was an honor just to be asked, right? In this case, there were many reasons why this trip was most likely not going to play out for me. Yet, due to my determined MacGuyver-like ingenuity, here I sit, between these two men, opposite ends of a spectrum, book ending my ever nebulous spot somewhere between them.

What does it mean to me, to be going to Israel? Besides the obvious and immediate,"well, I haven’t been anyplace on my own for more than 3 days since before the little cherubs were born…"
This trips begs the answer to that question. What does Israel mean to young American Jews today? Of course, I split that question down further: does Israel mean different things to Gen X’ers than it does to the Millennials? Politics?  Spirituality?  Peoplehood?  Kosher McDonalds?

I am woefully undereducated about Israel, politically and historically. My own confused and conflicted thoughts about settlers, occupied lands, not knowing enough about borders and who lives where. Also, the conversion bill and the power of the very religious over all of Israeli society.  My personal "favorite" grumble, the segregation of men and women at the Western Wall. I am a big fan of the awesome Women of the Wall – who have been attempting to participate in their own Torah service, since 1988.  
From a purely tourist point of view, I’d rather be there during beach season. I have always looked at Israel as one of many wished for destinations around the globe.  But this trip isn’t a typical tourist trip, and we’ll see what’s in store…
So here I go, ready to take on my preconceptions and conflicted feelings.

45 minutes out…
I’m exited to be landing in Israel, but I’d be remiss to not admit, I’m more than a little excited to get off the plane, as well.

Not sure what to expect as we make our way through a very tightly scheduled itinerary. One good friend gave me the best pre-trip advice of all: don’t worry if you don’t have those meaningful, "aha!" moments where and when you think you should have them. He said that when he was in Israel, the moment he was most grabbed by where he was and what it meant, occurred in a parking lot. Granted, the parking lot had a gorgeous view overlooking Jerusalem, but that’s where his moment happened.
Lizzie, this made me think of one of our long ago conversations about finding grace (do Jews talk about finding grace? For me, its such a post-Lizzie word!) in ordinary moments. Like finding thankfulness while driving along a beautiful country road. In that vein, I’m sure a soulful "wow, I’m actually here" moment in a parking lot with an incredible view of Jerusalem is entirely possible.

Part Two

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Part Five

Jane: 

I don’t observe a lot of Jewish laws.   Some puzzle me, or don’t personally resonate with me.   I respect them,  I know enough about many of them to not be a total dunderhead in the presence of someone who does observe.   But…

Jewish customs and observances around dying and death make a lot of sense to me.   There is meaning and purpose that flows:  From the moment of death, until the burial, it’s all about the dead person.  Once the funeral is over, and hands have been ritually cleaned upon leaving the cemetery, we turn to support those left to mourn.

The first gathering after the funeral,  is a meal (of course) of comfort.  Next,  the following days of sitting shiva; friends visiting your home to offer comfort,  to remember the deceased, a tour de force of community surrounding the bereaved.  

Crazy Jane Jewishness: shiva is a mixture of somberness, and believe it or not, levity. No one can attend to the heavy lifting of mourning, 24 hours a day. Nor should they mourn alone.   Shiva exists so friends will come, to remember the deceased, to tell funny and poignant stories about that person.   Having been through this for each of my parents, and once for my grandmother… I have an odd confession.   Sitting shiva for each of them had an element of…  if not a good time, then certainly something more uplifting than just relief from overwhelming sadness.

Please understand, this does not take away from my feelings of loss, or mourning.  I miss my parents with all my heart, and when those losses were fresh, it was unbearably painful. But I am a person who finds great comfort in the company of my friends and various family members.   So this all reflects my personal story, and in no way represents anyone else’s experience. This is what I realized:

In a fairly shallow way, a big turn out is a nice thing, and feels pretty good.

You can learn a lot about friends of the deceased, and your own family and friends, by seeing them in action at shiva. Who is hanging around eating cookies and sheepishly avoiding you? Who came to quickly say hello, and *then* spent the rest of the time hanging around eating cookies? Who is trying to set up their cousin’s granddaughter with that young attorney in the corner?  You can tell who "fortified" themselves. And who should have.

Good friends and those who truly mean to comfort will follow your lead.  For me, this meant mostly fond and funny memories, with a side of condolence and their own sense of loss. Tell me a joke, regale me with an amusing, slightly risque or silly story about my parent’s youth, that they *never* would have shared with me.

It’s kinda fun (in my warped, dark Jane sort of way) to play the "OMG!  Look who came out of the woodwork" game.   For example, and this actually happened at my dad’s burial…  I’m at the funeral, crying, hanging onto my husband and my best friend to steady myself.  I look up and see a cousin no one has seen in years. So in the middle of one of the most difficult moments of my life, I think to myself, "Holy sh**! Where the f*** did he come from?"  I realize this is totally crass. This cousin is a respectable guy, no jail time or indictments, no rehab stints or anything like that.   I don’t know why he disappeared, he just did.   Just as he just showed up, out of the blue.  Fleeting as it was, it was one of those "huh?!?" moments.   Even in the middle of Dad’s funeral.   Then, he showed up a day later to pay a shiva call, and many heartfelt promises were made to stay in touch. You can guess how *that* turned out.

I began to realize, not everyone shares my apparently disarming, irreverent, dark sense of  humor during "times like these".

Advice for the shiva rookie:

Don’t ring the doorbell.  I think you are supposed to just walk in.  

Don’t bring cake or cookies. Everyone else has done that.  Oh, and Jews don’t give flowers when people die.  It’s all about the food, baby.

Bring a meal for the mourners to eat after everyone has gone home, but make sure there aren’t already five trays of brisket in their fridge before hauling out your Bubbe’s killer recipe.

Bring ice, or soda, or paper goods. Seriously… there might be a lot of people stopping by, and they will want refreshments. It’s not up to the mourners to play host.  Help to clean up, too.

Some Jews hold a twice daily service in their home, in order to say the mourner’s prayer or Kaddish. They need ten Jews to do this.   If you are Jewish, even if you don’t know the prayers or what the heck you are doing at all, please slap on a kippah and count yourself in as one of those ten. It’s a mitzvah – in this case not just a commandment but a good thing to do.  Karma points as it were.

Again, at the risk of appearing entirely irreverent or disrespectful (whoops, too late?)  here are two of my personal favorite shiva "stories":

At the home of a good friend.   His loss was particularly devastating (they all are, but some… seem even more so). This friend is much more religiously observant than I am. I wanted to show my support, so for the first time in my life, there I am at a morning minyan at his home. 6:30 am, or so.   Our Rabbi’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when I walked in the door –  he was as surprised as I was at my novel show of Jewy-ness.   The traditional weekday morning service is said very quickly – I call this "speed davening" (praying).   No way I can even try to follow along.  I’m thinking to myself, "I am seriously  out of my league here".   Pretty hardcore, for a chick who grew up Reform and hopes no one notices when I look at the transliterated, not Hebrew, part of the page in the prayer book.  The Hebrew was rocketing by, and everyone else knew what they were doing.  I think the term "out-Jewed" came to my mind.   It’s pretty crowded, and I’m there, hovering, gripping the "no-transliteration" prayer book, in a very small vestibule. So, who walks in? The Lubavich (very very Religious) Rabbi from our local Chabad. Seriously.  I did a quick mental check. No tank top, that’s good. No shorts, check. Flip flops, oh well.   Forgot my pretty kippah, which bothered me because I couldn’t feel rebellious in that "look at me, I am a feminist Jew, neener neener boo boo" sort of way. Very religious men do not ever touch women, not even to shake hands.  So there I was, in the very small space, trying to make myself as small as physically possible.  Don’t ask me why. Some misguided internal Jewish inferiority complex, I guess.  If you think about it, this rabbi knew he was walking into egalitarian minyan, right?   Punchline: after the prayer service, my friend comes up to me.  And told me his laugh for that morning was looking up and seeing me and the Lubavich rabbi davening together in the entrance to his house.  I made my very sad friend laugh – mission accomplished. 

The other story has more to do with who shows up when you experience a great loss.  I am very fortunate that when I needed them most, I had a lot of friends there to support me.  I do not come from religious folk.  I come from barely religiously tolerant folk, to be honest.  So there we were, sitting shiva for my dad.   Surrounded by Dad’s friends, my friends, various family members…  The funny stories are flying.  The deli and cookies are disappearing from the table.  We were on the top floor of his condo building, in a room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson River and New York skyline.  It would have made for a fabulous party, under different circumstances.  Dad would have loved it.  It was getting darker out, the lights from the city were beginning to actually twinkle.  And then a fantastically lit, big-as-a-city cruise ship sailed majestically by.  Cue the momentary hush that fell over the room – Dad loved living here, looking over the city.  And then my brother said…  "Look, it’s the ship bringing more of my sister’s ex-boyfriends to come pay their respects".  Bada boom.  

 In the dark, we need the brilliantly lit cruise ship to sail by our windows.   And we need it to bring friends.   My religion sets that up nicely.  

Lizzie:

This is what I love about you, Jane.  At the same time as you are helping me understand "shiva"–a word that for this ex-Catholic Irish girl conjures up a two-dimensional image of someone in mourning just sitting–you are also introspecting, laughing, grieving, chiding, advising, and wondering.   And I realized something in reading this.  Your religion not only sets up the brilliantly lit cruise ship nicely.  It also provides an ocean of meaning, connection, and goodness upon which to sail.

This is one of those times I find myself wishing I were a Jew.

I had to reread the text message several times before I realized that the 10K request from my college daughter was NOT a plea for lavish senior-year funding.

OMG, she wants me to RUN a 10K.   She actually thinks I’ve got 10 kilometers of "just do it" in me.  Which soon gave way to… Awwwwwww.  What a nice compliment from my super-fit 21-year-old daughter.

After a flurry of text messages, we’d struck a compromise:  5K, October 9, Waynesboro, Virginia, Fall Colors Fun Run.

Which meant I needed to actually begin doing some running.  Now mind you, I’m not in terrible shape.  I give my elliptical a whole 30-40 minutes of my time most days.  And if the kids aren’t around, I cue up Dexter Season 1, which I just discovered on Netflix.  My latest guilty pleasure.  (Why do I like a psychopathic serial-killer protagonist?  But that’s a blog post for another day, isn’t it?….)

Ten days into my training, I have had a number of flashbacks to middle school  PE class.  A horrifying, humiliating experience PE was for me.  I’ll never forget the catty Mrs. Maranzano chumming it up with one of the cool girls.  In fact, Mrs. M even referred to this very perky blonde student as "Cool Bird."  And of course…Cool Bird could run like the wind.  During our running unit, Cool Bird just ticked off the laps cute as can be.  Me?  Different story, I’m afraid.

If my classmate was a bird, I was a rabbit.  And not a cool one.  I was Thumper.  (Eddie Modzeliewski was the first to appy the moniker–and, seventh graders being the ridicule experts that they are, it stuck.)  Long, narrow, keds-clad feet slapping the track, ka-thwack, ka-thwunk.  While skinny, bookworm, awkward me tried to keep propelling a reluctant body forward.  I just didn’t like running.  And I knew it did not flatter me.  But there was Mrs. M, stopwatch in hand and smug smile playing about her lips as I panted and lumbered along.

So, I’ve spent a lot of my life figuring out ways to stay in shape without anyone ever seeing the process.  And I’ve just been through this divorce which (while I don’t want to whine) did result in a lot of people I used to like giving me some very good reasons to be a basement-dwelling, Dexter-watching recluse.  But screw it all…my daughter wanted me to do a race with her–and it was time to just get over all of that.

And so out I went, through my neighborhood, on the bike trail, through my old neighborhood, past the college in my town.  The fall air felt exhilarating, even though my jogging was not exactly…buoyant.  And of course no one cared.  Because, contrary to the convictions of 7th-grader who still lives somewhere inside of my head, I am not the center of the universe.  I’m a middle-aged mom lucky enough to be asked to run with her adult daughter.  And healthy enough to wrap myself in September breezes to chug along a few miles. It IS called a Fun Run, after all.

I wonder if Cool Bird still runs.  I wonder if Mrs. Maranzano ever joined the ranks of enlightened, self-image-nurturing physical education teachers.  Bet I could find out on Facebook….

 Jane

Wow!  I am so impressed with your cheerful willingness to participate in a 10K.  I am also very impressed with your daughter’s invitation to join her.  I’ve always wanted to be in/have that sort of family that plays soccer together, or hikes and canoes in the Grand Canyon, followed by some adventurous white water rafting and camping trip.  It should be painfully obvious (especially to anyone who knows me or my family), this is SO not my reality.   Like kids who eat no white foods, and only watch TV for an hour each week.  Ha. 

Yay for you, Lizzie, for overcoming your fear of being Thumper!  Taking this "fun run" (an oxymoron, frankly)  on and approaching it with a great attitude.  Yay for the elliptical.  And yay for the basement and Dexter!  

The school memories are another thing altogether.  There is a reason that I do not have an athletic family.  I am not athletic!  Flash back to Jr. High… (insert shimmery air effect here)

Somehow, in a moment of delusional youthful optimism, I spent my 8th grade year (or was it 7th?) trying out for Fall Soccer, Winter Basketball.  Unsuccessfully, which must be why Spring Softball is not on this list.  No, this isn’t even Lizzie’s forced march of mandatory PE.  No, this was something I actually, however misguidedly, signed up for.  Myself.  My idea.  I have a horrible memory of huffing and puffing around the edges of a field, and the coach bobbing his head watching my poorly fitted bra not prevent the inevitable bounce.  Bounce.   Bounce.   (as if the Bounce were not bad enough, the knowledge of it being observed was even more excruciating).  There is a reason most of us would be loathe to repeat our pre-teen and teen years, ack!  (repeat shimmery air effect, as we skip ahead to 2003-2004)

After a particularly difficult moment in my life, my father decided to foot the bill for the ridiculously expensive health club in my area.  The fancy one that everyone went to, brought their kids for activities to, ate healthy and fabulous food at, and took excruciating exercise classes.  I was totally afraid of these classes.  Determined to beat my blues, and petrified of being tagged as a smoothie-sipping poser, I tried out the elliptical.  Miraculously, no Bounce Bounce Bounce.  (thanks to a non-jarring machine, and improved bra technology).  Here was a cardio workout I could do, without giving myself a black eye!  

One thing led to another, and by the time a few months had sped by, I was at the gym 4-5 times each week, little toddler Ringo safely ensconced in classes or babysitting, attending Body Pump, a grueling but very satisfying combination of grindingly boppy music, weight lifting, lunges, curls, sit ups, and leg lifts.  With weights. (!!)  I’d never been more fit in my life.  My upper arms actually had definition!   It was a great run (pun intended), until a tricky pregnancy (the result of which was Lulu) put an end to Body Pump.  And sadly, I’ve never looked back.  

Keep going, my fit friend.  Do it for your blogging buddy who considers running errands as a major part of a non-existent fitness regime.  

Lizzie:

Jane, I wince every time you tell me about the Bounce and the eyes of that gym teacher. Your relationship with exercise has been similar to mine in many ways–but not that one.  When you’re not naturally an athletic kid, it’s pretty tough to add a layer of red-alert self-consciousness to the mix.  It’s cool that your dad helped you out with that gym membership–what better way for a dad to advocate for his grown daughter?  I like your father more and more all the time.  And yes, ellipticals are a gift.  The perfect equipment for the self-conscious, the joint-impaired,  and the exercise-averse.   Sounds like you’re one of those lucky folks whose physique responded cheerfully and willingly to the gym time.  Wish you lived close to me, so we could figure out how to form a workout buddy partnership, my friend!

Followup on the Fun Run.  I got injured…micro-tears in knee cartilage from all that high-impact thumping, I guess.  Sigh.  I watched my kids enjoy the run…and they were great.  Better than great.  Happy, fit, full of life, enjoying the fall morning air.  I cheered them on as they came across the finish line.  Yeah, I wish I could have joined them–but being their cheering squad was a sweet moment as well.

I am now recovered from the injury, and so the question is, what AM I going to do to get back in shape?  I’m turning 45 this week, and so–as a gift to myself–I joined the local gym.  It’s a nice deal, actually.  For my membership fee, I get access to both a very nice facility with trainers and slick equipment and juice bar.  (Not that I like juice–but it has this nice tiki-bar look to it, and it lends a certain Caribbean-resort air to the  otherwise warehouse-y ambience.  More importantly, though, I also get 24/7 access to a smaller gym that is literally 2 minutes from my front door.  

Jane, would it be boring if I kept Pandoration up to date on my progress?  First meeting with personal trainer is November 8.  Maybe I couldn’t do the ever-so-glorious Fall Foliage Fun Fun–but I can still get fit and back into my size 6’s over the next 6-8 months.

So here’s to fun runs–even when they don’t happen.  Even when they cause Bounce.  Even when they simply lead to a greater appreciation of having all of one’s limbs in working order.  

Here’s to living well, my dear Jane.  On my 45th birthday, I know that I’m one lucky Pandora to be able to count you among my friends.  L’chaim.

Jane:

Please Lizzie – I’d love it if you kept a "running" post/log (ha ha there I go again) monitoring your progress!  I would look forward to each new entry, if only in a vicarious way…   (somehow, I doubt it would be numbers of reps, hours on machines…)  I’d look forward to keeping up with how your progress makes you feel, and how that affects everything else!  

Must be something about turning 45 (how did I do that without a post, way back in September?)  For you,  it’s injury induced fitness.  For me… well, it’s a basement flood induced house-wide organization effort.  Jumpstarted by the looming presence of a dumpster in the driveway.  DIY for the soul,  facing down 50 in the face?  

Happiest of birthdays dearest Lizzie!

Lizzie:

Thanks, Jane.  I think I’ll do it.  The appointment with the personal trainer is Monday (11/8).  Maybe that would be the time to start documenting the effort to lose 20 lbs. and get in the best shape of my life.   Why not add to the challenge and ratchet up the accountability?