Shadchans, Wierdo's, and Dogs

And so the 's' word rears it ugly head again, and I am faced with either ignoring, crying, ranting, or laughing about my little incident with the ever so famous 'shadchan'. I use the term in the singular, because at this point, they all seem to blend into one big disapproving giant purple (Yes, I think purple is fitting) blob that floats around like a huge super-sized slug saying: "YOU MUST COMPROMISE...YOU WANT TOO MUCH... SETTLE SETTLE SETTLE...BLAHHHHH"

Since I started 'seeing' shadchans a year and a half ago, I have often found the experience to be more painful than dating itself. In my first 'rant' on shadchan's, I equated them to the psychological equivalent of an OB/GYN exam - embarrassing and painful, yet unfortunately necessary. Today, I'm beginning to even wonder about necessity.

My 'interview' initially went rather well - it was excellent in fact. We made it through all of the majors without any 'disapproving' glances or lectures. It was 'okay' that I wanted someone that was educated. It was 'fine' that I wanted someone that had (or will have) some kind of parnassah. And she didn't even flinch when I said I tend to be attracted to guys taller than 5'7". So far, so good! I was excited. It was going great. Maybe she could know my b'sheret. It seemed possible. Wow, one step closer! Then just as the conversation was coming to a close, I made a fatal flaw. I told her that I loved nature, horseback riding, and I had... a dog. Well, you can imagine, it was as if the happy background music suddenly trumpeted into the deflated sounds of "waaahhh waaah waaaahhh...". Alas, I was defeated again.

But the pain was not yet over. Oh no, that would have been too easy. So instead of making a clean break, I had to listen to 30 minutes of why I need to be open to giving this particular 'something' up for my future husband. So I sat patiently listening to an explanation which included stories about scabies, parasites, fleas, and ticks. Which, if you ever wondered, scabies are apparently very disgusting little creatures! Then after we covered those basics, we dove headfirst into the halachic issues of dog ownership as well.

Well, that was fun! And no matter how many times I kept trying to interject and explain that the scenario of me being faced with this decision was highly impropable, I was not allowed to finish my sentence. I was barely given the time to explain that it seems highly contradictory that the type of person I would be attracted to in general would 'insist or demand' that I give my dog away.

But it didn't matter... none of it did. Nothing I could say mattered. It didn't matter that I love nature and want to share that experience with my husband, or that I love horseback riding, and at least hope he doesn't mind if I go (hopefully he'll want to join me), and it didn't matter that I rescued this beaten and abused dog from the pound, helped her learn to trust again, and have had her with me for six years - none of it mattered. I didn't matter anymore... not once I stepped too far outside of the dreaded box!

And so the meeting came to an end and I left as frustrated as usual. I felt drained, disrespected, and judged - which are all really great feelings to have when you're pretty much living on your own as an immigrant in a new country. In the taxi on the way home, I nearly stopped at my secret rose garden to take a walk, reminisce, and regroup... but I did have to get home and walk the dog... responsibility and commitment are part of the territory of dog ownership... too bad that couldn't have been the focus instead.

So I came home, put the 'infamous' dog on a leash, and headed out around the block. As I was walking, a man that I've seen in the neighborhood nearly every day for the last year, approached me for the first time as I was ever so glamorously picking up dog poop, and said in broken English, I kid you not, "The dog is bad. You treat it like a son. You need a husband." Then he proceeded to offer himself up as one, of which I kindly declined, threw the dog poop away, and walked into the house... completely stunned!

A little more rhymin'...

When the words are floating, and there is too much to say,
And too much flows within these thoughts, I cannot choose a way.

That is when I let it flow, step back from all my thought,
And let it fly up to the sky, and see what can't be caught...

Fragments flowing, going knowing, showing little place
of solid lines or tracing times just way out there in space.

My brain it runs, it stuns, it puns, and then it finds its peace
With this little exercise, so wise, as its release.

Wise, so wise, did I say that, so much for being humble,
I could pretend, and then defend, so I'll say it in a mumble.

Sometimes I see the wisdom, in this little special soul,
It soars, and roars, far from the shores, but is it really whole?

Yes, it's whole, on mostly days that feel things are complete,
But then it quests, with such requests, and begins now to compete.

For this and that, and then the other, wanting what it sees,
Oh too much for just one soul that's floating on the seas.

But why not so much, why not it says, is there limitation?
Only when it's not so true - if you're a living imitation.

Ahhh, a question, much to ponder, but who really has the time,
To think, and shrink, and kitchen sink, the world within the mind.

Fun With Words

I used to write an ounce a day
I'd sit and watch the words all play

Form and storm, and wind around
Flowing with magnetic sound

As each flowed to match its mate,
The words, I found, each had a date.

A pair so simple, yet so true,
They marched until the rhyme was through.

Then some teacher told me wrong,
And said that rhyme was just for song.

A real poet should never rhyme,
Grow on up, don't waste your time

So I growed on up to be poetic,
And fought the words that were so magnetic.

Glorious matches, I'd let slilp by,
And to this day, I can't tell you why.

To explore the 'genres' of grown up thought,
I'll tell you of that life I sought.

To be adult, to be so serious,
To live in worlds that weren't mysterious.

To think about the reasons why,
To ponder, wonder, or just to cry.

With midnight writes beneath the heavens,
Grown up thoughts - at age eleven.

And now that I am thirty-two,
I'm glad that I can hit undo.

Back to life and back to rhyme,
Dancing words and wasting time.

Loving that which flows so real,
A grown up with such childish zeal.

As life is lived beyond my dreams,
Far beyond constricted seams.

To form and storm with words of magic,
The lapses really weren't that tragic.

I still wrote for all those years,
And found the rhymes beneath the fears.

Of wasting time as a poetic fake,
My hopes, I never let them break.

So I rhymed within such hidden places,
A garden of such secret spaces.

Books and stacks of hidden glory,
Each one of them tells its story.

Words abound so perfectly fit,
I couldn't help myself but to commit.

Each word to that which it belongs,
In rhymes, in dreams, or in a song.

Helping each become much more,
Than just a sea without a shore.

And in this fun I hope and pray,
My word will come along one...

Losing Our Brothers

It's 7:30 a.m. and I'm waking with the hopes that yesterday was just a bad dream. I sit down at my computer and check the news as I do every morning - but the headlines haven't changed. My friend is still dead - killed fighting for our country in South Lebanon.

Michael Levine was like a little brother to me - a very unique, courageous, beautiful, and special friend. We met when I first arrived in Israel, almost two years ago, and bonded very quickly. It was a very deep soul connection, one that built a sibling-type friendship based on an open door and an open ear. And as most new Olim know, your friends quickly become a part of your family when you're so far away from home. Mike (or Mikey) as I called him, was part of mine.

Today, on Tisha B'Av, as I prepare for his funeral, it is no struggle to mourn.

Last night, in my fog-induced state, I made my way to the Kotel. Thousands of people were there and all were in a state of mourning. As I sat down in front of the Kotel for the first time since I'd received the news, I brought out my book of Tehillim. The tears flowed so quickly though, that I wasn't even able to open it.

As I sat there on the ground, barefoot (since I'd forgotten to change out of my leather shoes), crying with all my heart and soul, I cried myself into the reality that my dear friend was gone. And as I cried so freely, so openly amidst the mourners, I felt comforted being surrounded by so many people that were mourning too. But, I must confess, there were moments when I'd take pause, or notice others watching my display of grief - and I felt uncomfortable. I was embarrased to think that they might believe I was crying so hard for our Beit HaMikdash - I mean, I'm not that frum. In those moments of pause, my first inclination was to tell people, "I'm not crying for the Temple, I'm crying for Mikey." But for some reason, I never said a word, and continued my mourning.

They say that when you save one life, you save a universe. I'm assuming it's the same in reverse. So as I sat there grieving for my dear sweet "little brother", I realized I was also crying for the Temple, for our people, for the deepest destruction possible. A universe was destroyed yesterday, and many more before it - too many. Our children, our brothers, our soldiers, our family are dying day by day. Universes upon universes are being destroyed every moment. The devastation, the destruction, doesn't have to lie in the rubble anymore, because it lives in the hearts of those that still love our fallen brothers and sisters. When will it be enough? When will we learn? When will it stop?

When will we all start crying?

Being Israeli

I live in a little neighborhood in the center of Jerusalem that best reminds me a small ‘Italian-type’ village. It is a unique neighborhood for Jerusalem, in that it is a collective mix of all different types of people – old Yerushalmi Sephardim, new Anglo immigrants, Chassidim, Hareidim, and non-religious Jews alike. It is a special place where everyone not only lives together peacefully, but is actually happy doing it.

As I walk through the streets of my little village neighborhood, I’m often struck by the music that echoes from my neighbors’ houses. The music, especially before Shabbos and holidays, is often rather joyful and uplifting. It’s also played rather loudly and seems to spread the joyful feeling throughout the community. No one would ever think to complain about the noise levels being bothersome, because the music itself makes everyone feel too happy to think about complaining.

In the last few weeks – the music changed.

As I walk through my special little neighborhood now, I hear different sounds. The quiet echoes of sad music permeate the air. I don’t even need to understand the words to feel the emotion that stirs within the lamenting echoes of the songs. It’s a deep, quiet, and painful tribute of national mourning that can’t be spoken. We all feel it in our souls.

The heavy tone in the Jerusalem air is palpable right now. The weather is cold for July and even the overcast skies seem to convey the pain in the hearts of every Jew here. People still walk through the streets, life still continues, but something, some feeling, is simply different.

What is most interesting to me – as still somewhat of an outsider in this culture – is that this change is not one of fear. While my Anglo friends and I seem to be rapidly dancing back and forth between faith and fear – the Israeli’s don’t partake in the dance at all. I asked my roommate, a kind sweet Israeli woman from Efrat, “How do you do it? How do Israeli’s deal with this all of the time?” In her non-chalant, laid-back, Israeli-style she simply said, “We just pray. What else can you do?”

Our conversation continued as I asked her for more details about how to handle an escalation of this crisis. “But how should we prepare. What should we do?” I insisted as I quietly began making a mental checklist for my “emergency war preparedness” kit.

She looked at me with a mixed sense of compassion, kindness, and a subtle dash of pity –it was the same look you give someone that you feel sorry for because they just can’t seem to grasp some fundamental principle of existence. And she said to me, “Listen, we’ll know what to do, when we need to do it. Now, stop reading your computer, and go read some Tehillim (Psalms) instead.”

For a brief moment, I understood what it was like to be Israeli, and to be a Jew.

So as my phone continues to ring off the hook in my Jerusalem apartment situated in my quaint little village neighborhood near town, and I’m bombarded with questions such as “Are you okay? Are you coming home?” I pull from that strength that exists within every Jew and answer like an Israeli – which I am – which we all are.

I am home. Won’t you come join me?

Mirrors

I've been thinking a lot about 'mirrors' lately. How thoughts and self-perceptions often manifest in our surroundings.
I've been thinking a lot about my mirrors lately, and know that there is strength - despite some chips in the glass.

I've been looking at those chips, and finding their source - in the 'not (fill in the blank) enough' side of my thinking.
I've been looking at the mirrors, and wondering how - a tiny chip can often hide the rest of the picture.

I've been looking at the results - the people and experiences - and know that some can only focus on the cracks
I've been looking at the others, the ones that see the picture - and think the cracks give the picture more character.

I've been wondering why there's such a split in my life - between those that see more or see less
Then I see the roots of their source, like a spreadsheet of my thoughts - and know where the gaps begin

Under the heading of friend, I rate myself high - never questioning my own give and take
Under the heading of student, I have always excelled - and have no doubt to my own strong ability

With the heading of child, of which sometimes I still am - I never feel quite good enough
With the heading of worker, no matter how hard I try - I still know that it hangs from a string

And the heading of partner, the one I most long for - I question my ability to be all that he needs.
And the heading of person, which I was given with birth - ties itself more to what I can do than to who I am.

Under the heading of strength, I come from strong stock - and can take any blow thrown my way
Under the heading of joy, I had little to mirror - a reflection I sometimes struggle to recognize.

The spreadsheet of my thoughts, lies out in the mirror of my life.
And I wonder, should I just break the mirror, or simply take a few more steps back.

A close up view, often distorts the image.

Calling All Shadchans - An Apology

A few weeks ago I wrote a little article - okay, a rant - about dating through Shadchan's. It was a no holds barred piece of writing and my opinions were very clear. Since having written the article, I've been 'taught' a big lesson, and I hope I've learned it as well. That being said, I must offer a sincere apology to any and all Shadchan's throughout the world. I now understand a few things that I didn't just a month ago when I wrote the article: 1. Shadchan's ultimately do have positive intentions, and are daily trying to facilitate something that is more difficult than parting the Red Sea. That being said, they deserve acknowledgment and the merit for even trying. It is an honorable person that even tries to make a Shidduch. 2. I've learned that not having a Shadchan is much more difficult than having one. And not having a Shadchan can cause unnecessary confusion, pain,and hardship that would have otherwise been avoided.

That being said, in line with my last piece: Calling all Shadchan's, Calling all Shadchan's... please forgive my words of frustration and ignorance. I apologize. And, I've got a job for you if you're interested... :)