Holy Wrappings

What does not mean to wrap ourselves in holiness? 

What does it mean to be both joyful and soulful, to be full of laughter and aching for meaning, to be having fun in a wedding dress and softly crying under a prayer shawl?

I have been having fun with a wedding dress for a couple years now, but want to move this blog into a deeper place, into exploring holy wrappings. A wedding dress is one such wrapping. Tears and laughter and prayer shawls and star-lit skies and sunsets and ocean waves can be be too. 

So, if you like my writing, start coming back. I am exploring this in my life, in my art, at my job, on the trail, in my studies and definitely in my writing. To be continued soon. 

Join me...how are you wrapped in holiness?

Yom HaShoah

No wedding dress pictures on this day of remembrance, which corresponds this year to the 13th day of the counting of the Omer, Yesod of Gevurah in a kabbalistic world view.
A day that stops traffic in Israel. A day we are drawn to places that help us remember and might bring us to tears. We question G-d and humans. We question ourselves and wonder what we would have done. Would I have had the courage to run or hide or join the resistance? Would I have had the smarts to survive and save others? If the tables were reversed would I risk my life for others?

Yesod of Gevurah asks us to examine the way that we create discipline and structure in our lives in ways that strengthen our bonds with others. We are asked to re-frame disciplines of practice and structural forms are something so we create then together as friends or partners or communities. These need to be ways to draw people in, to build connection, and to commit to what we value.

So I wonder...can I commit to standing up against genocide? Can I stand up for and be a voice for the ones who have been silenced? Can I live a life that makes a mark in place of all of those who never had a chance? Can my remembrance, my Jewish discipline create pathways of connection that move us beyond remembrance?

Can I be one of the good souls that Anne Frank wanted to believe in...is that something I can commit to? 

Can I live a life as if I was a was one of the Lamed-Vav Tzadikim, the 36 righteous souls whose acts and deeds and presence justify the purpose of humankind in the eyes of G-d. Perhaps this is what I owe those who do not have the chance to live a good life; a pledge to live as if I am a  lamed-vavnik, even if I am sure that I am not. 

Or perhaps it is choosing to live a Jewish life, perhaps that is what I owe those who have gone. To live a life that they were murdered for, even if they did not practice or believe. Perhaps it is to defend religious practices that might seen out of sync, but help people find meaning and purpose and live a good life. 

Perhaps that is what all of us owe: living a life that matters so that we honor all who have come before us and parted the sea, battled for freedom, planted the fields, and given us a chance to live as we choose. 

A woman with wings...a story of leaving a narrow place

     I was born one magical evening at sunset. The sky was crimson and turquoise, and so were my wings. It was not unusual that I was born with wings, most babies were, but mine were especially beautify because they were kissed by the sunset. I grew up like most little girls, laughing an crying, playing and learning, growing and changing. When I was very young I loved to flex my wings like the other children, delighting in the sensuous power and exhilaration that came with dreaming about flight. My wings had the colors of a sunset reflected in the ocean, and grew stronger as I pushed them against the wind.
     Time passed however, as it always does, and I grew older. I was told that the time for play was ending and that I must learn to be a young lady. Proper young ladies do not fly, rather they hold their wings still, secured with ribbons and bows to show off their shape and color, but never their magnificence or power. Nor did proper grown-up women fly for their wings were atrophied and frozen in place.
     When I was young my family would smile at me when I spread my wings and pretended to fly, but now that my wings were stronger and flight was possible, they no longer smiled. It was fine to indulge me when I was little and could not fly, but once I came of age and might try, I had to be taught to behave properly.
     My grandmother took me aside often and told me that nice young ladies did not fly. She had never even considered trying, and look how nice and atrophied her wings were. Look how well she had managed and controlled her life. She told me I would embarrass the family if I did not stop spreading my wings. I must tie them back like a good girl and do what would make my family, and her friends, wanted. Their happiness was more important than my silly dream of flying. 
     My father took me aside and told me that flying was not safe for girls, only for boys. After all, in flying school the men were the teachers, and the boys the students. There was no one to teach me! That was proof that women...ladies...should not fly. 
     I looked up at the sky and pointed...sometimes...high and far away I could see a women flying. Rarely, but there she would be. "Who taught her?"  I would ask. My father would shake his head and tell my that good girls did not fly, and that I should ignore that one, self-taught woman. Being good and safe on the ground was more important than being free in the air.
    My friends told me that if I wanted boys to like me I would have to learn how to hold my wings still and quiet, so they would grow thinner and weaker. No boy would like a girl with strong wings who chose to fly!
     I listened when they talked...I really did. I tried to hold my wings still; I tied them with ribbons everyday at school, even though I was crying inside. I tried to forget the feeling of the wind caressing my wings, the feeling of strength and grace that came when my wings were spread, but I could not. Everyone would be angry and disappointed if I continued to spread my wings so that they could grow strong, but I could not resist. I wanted to fly more than I wanted my grandmother's approval. I wanted to fly more than I wanted my father's praise. I wanted to fly more than I wanted my schoolmate's friendship.
     Sometimes at night I would dream that I was flying amid the stars through clouds of silver mist and webs of moonlight. I tried to tell my mother about my dreams, and she would look sad for me. She hugged me and told me that flying was hard and scary, and that I should do the right thing and make everyone else happy.
     I watched as the popular girls held their wings in the proper way and lost the ability to use them. I did want to be the friend they wanted, but I could not let my wings grow still and useless. I wanted the boys to like me, but not at the expense of abandoning who I wanted to be.
     Finally one evening at sunset when the sky was crimson and turquoise, I walked into the surf and spread my wings. I turned into the wind and felt myself lifted from the waves into the sky. After years of watching hawks and eagles fly, I knew what to do, so I trusted my instincts and began to fly. 
     At first I just traversed the beach, riding the wind with joy in my heart. The world rushed by under me as I flew higher and faster. At last I left the beach behind and and allowed the wind to guide me, following the thermals and shifting breezes. 
     I looked back and say the narrowness of my town, something that I could not see from the ground. I had left a narrow place to the wideness of the skies and my dreams. I turned and flew toward the horizon.

mezuzahs as spiritual cocoons

There is a wonderful history program running on PBS, the Story of the Jews in which Simon Schama poses that 10 million dollar question: how have the Jews survived for almost 4000 years in the face of violence and numerous attempts at annihilation? ?What is the secret of a group of people, perhaps a family, who call themselves a nation, that has kept them alive while powerful civilizations have faded into archeological memory? Why are there still Jews on the planet?

We are not better or smarter, luckier or more talented, richer or more powerful, or more beloved. But we are still here. 

For a secret to work it must be hidden, and yet easy to find to be effective. So what is hidden in plain sight, and easily found that is distinctive to the Jewish faith?

That was my a-ah moment...our entire faith, theology, and belief system is hidden safely in plain sight. Anyone who looks can find it. Anyone willing to invest time and energy can uncover it. By wrapping everything that matters in a protective cover we are demonstrating what we consider valuable.

Much like a cocoon protects a caterpillar as it becomes a butterfly, our wrappings become places that speak of and guard transformation. We put the Torah...our story...into garments. We place some of the holy prayers into T'fillin which are used during prayer. We create pray shawls that we wrap ourselves in as we pray so that we might transform. And we create beautiful wrappings for the words of the Shema blessing to mark our doorways and gates.

These mezuzah covers that mark Jewish doorways reach back to the story of the exodus, when marking our doorways protected us from the angel of death and the last plague. Then we were told to use blood; now we are told to use the words of our central prayer. And we wrap these words in something beautiful so that they are safe and accessible. They look like art, or decoration, and, that same way that way a cocoon blends into the branch on which it hangs, mezuzahs blend into the doorway attracting little attention. Unless of course you know what it contains.

And this is the second gift of the wrappings. Words and stories and prayers can be unwrapped and used. Sacred does not mean untouchable; sacrosanct does not mean out of reach. The words are here, the story is alive, the shawls and coverings are lovely but not holy unto themselves. What they cover is holy, and still accessible. 

I am sure there is more to Jewish longevity than this, but perhaps the wrappings have kept our true secret safe. While Romans stole gold and silver from the temple, that left the words and prayer and stories behind, disguised in their spiritual cocoons. 

Purim and Freedom

There is an amazing sense of freedom that I feel at the top of a mountain. This might be the best part of skiing; the opportunity to see the beauty of the world from the top of a mountain. This ski day was a bit different since it fell on the day before Purim, a celebration of the day the Jews snatched freedom from the jaws of destruction. 

I know that I have written about Purim, the holiday with a female lead character who saves the entire nation of Jews from death. But this year it felt a bit different, and  the meaning of freedom as seen from the top of a mountain seemed profound. In part because Purim is a holiday  that teaches us the power of one evil voice. Haman sets out to destroy the Jews because one Jew refuses to bow to him. One man's ego set mass destruction in motion. And one woman's courage saves a nation

At one point in the story Esther hesitates and her uncle Mordecai says to her:

Do not imagine that you in the king's palace can escape any more than all the Jews. "For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance will arise for the Jews from another place and you and your father's house will perish. And who knows whether you have not attained royalty for such a time as this?"

I wonder...would I stand up? Do I have the courage to fight to freedom for myself and others? Do I understand how blessed I am, and that by Jewish tradition those blessings have corresponding  responsibilities of Tikkum Olam, healing the universe.

As I stand at the top of the mountain I realize how easy it would be to judge others' actions and choices from this mountain top view, something I like to call ski lift spirituality. We ride to the top of the mountain, get off the lift in our warm clothes on our expensive skis, look around and declare "wow...this is a spiritual experience" and then ski down. What if at the top of the mountain I had to give my warm clothes away, or recognize that I was this blessed, this privileged only so that I could help others. What if someone told me that I had been given the gift of warmth and freedom so that I could bring warmth and freedom to others, and that to turn away from this task would cost me my life? Would I fight for freedom, no matter the cost?  

Purim is a time of laughter and celebration...and at the same time a reminder that freedom is costly, and the actions of one individual, for good or for evil, can change the course of a nation. 

looking back leaning forward part two

OK..so really an elementary school reunion needs a bit more discussion.  So let me set the stage. I left a cold wet dreary Denver and landed in a bright warm happy place. The hotel room was not ready....but I did not care. The tide was out, the sun was shining and the ocean was calling. So I had lots of time and many miles to think about the reunion.

I had a bit of information about people's lives, but was fascinated by the thought of seeing everyone. We all had compound stories and myths, adventures and challenges, tragedies and triumphs. I actually could connect some of the pictures from the past with the faces on Facebook. 
And some of the careers with some of my memories. But we had all moved in unique directions. What would we talk about?

The reunion was at a beautiful house in Calabasas. The instructions were for nice casual, which in LA means anything from jeans to jewels. And we all fit into that category. I recognized the faces and the names came back and the stories seemed to weave together. How interesting that our early years seemed align so well with our present, and perhaps our future. We shared laughter and tears and wove our tales together over wine.

The people were lovely, as was the night. And while I realized that any painful memories of the past did not really matter in that way one might think, the past did come into clear focus. It felt like a kaleidoscope had been turned into several beautiful new patterns.  

The patterns shifted. Being on the outside of a group, or at least feeling that I was, made me understand better the dynamics of the outsider. 

Being a lone wolf back then made me a more resilient now. Looking in from the outside made me more compassionate. And...as the song says...being chosen last for basketball made me courageous enough to crave adventure. Not fitting in set me free.

I came home and worked on my art...capturing the nature of Mezuzahs with fiber. OK...that was a leap. But seeing that I was not tied to a old story made me willing to continually write a new one. Mezuzahs? A Jewish cocoon holding a scroll that tells us the secret to becoming a spiritual butterfly. Artist? why not try?

So thank you classmates from my past. You held up mirrors for me to discover myself. You helped me find myself in ways that I could not have done alone. Perhaps we have to dance together, like mezuzahs and doorposts, our past and our present, to find our deepest spiritual truths. Or at least our own path.

Looking back but leaning forward

OK...so mercury really was retrograde when the (now) women I went to elementary school contacted me. They had not been on my radar, or on my life since 8 grade. I skipped half a year and left them behind. I have very few memories from that time, and really hardly any of them are good. 

They posted pictures on a facebook site, while I destroyed any that I found. Remember that weekend in the storage unit sorting my mom's stuff? Yep...I tossed every one that I found. They posted memories and every one's names while I wondered if I had been napping during those years.

And then they wanted to hold a reunion, but in LA, and I was strangely attracted to the idea. It might be because that awkward, fat, girl with the Jew-fro was long gone, replaced by a wild courageous spirit..who still looked good in a wedding dress. It might be because I knew I could add on two days of beach walking in Santa Barbara. Or maybe it was because I needed to put the past to bed. Or...best yet...realize that none of it every really mattered even though it seemed so important at the time.

So..I ran off to Santa Barbara for two days of beach walking and meditation...and shopping. And walking on the beach. And drinking wine on the beach. Thinking about all the challenges of the last year, and the year to come. I was poised between the job I had and what the job would become with a new boss. Who is wonderful...and for whom I will be able to do my best work. 

Why? Because everything I was that kept me from fitting in when I was young, everything that set me up for criticism from from my Grandmother, now made me a powerful leader. 
Not fitting in for all the odd reasons, the fact that I did not like the Beatles, was not good at sports, was not a typical "girl" but was a bit "bossy and pushy" and wanted to be more than the rules said I could...all of that taught me resiliency.  Not fitting in then, made be wonderful at making my own choices now. 

So perhaps my past did matter, but not in the way that I thought. It made me strong, and for that I am grateful.