Spring Makeover

Pamela's Pekele has moved to a new cyber-location!  Check out my home page at www.pamelagottfried.com.  I recently posted a piece there titled "Letting It Go."

You can subscribe to the blog by clicking on the RSS button there.  You can also "like" my book on Facebook by clicking on the FB button.  Please feel free to send your friends to visit, too!





 

Teachable Moments

An excellent teacher possesses the ability to design a lesson plan that includes appropriate learning activities and to maintain a certain momentum in the classroom.  According to Jon Saphier & Robert Gower, another trait of a skillful teacher is the ability to handle intrusions upon these well-laid plans with flexibility. (from The Skillful Teacher: Building Your Teaching Skills)  Most skillful teachers would agree that often these intrusions are actually opportunities to jump off the treadmill-- to leave aside objectives and benchmarks, to address the most pressing concerns of their students-- to share a life lesson that may not otherwise be covered by the curriculum. I like to call these intrusions "teachable moments."

Lately, I have enjoyed more than my fair share of teachable moments while watching Glee with my daughter.  A few weeks ago, the writers attempted to tackle the topic of teenage drinking in both the story line and the music, but left me-- and I suspect many other parents-- in the position of discussing my own opinions about alcohol consumption with my child long after the credits and final commercial aired.  The following week's episode centered on teenage sexuality.  I spent the better part of the evening unable to enjoy the music as I composed my opening remarks for our follow-up discussion.  Fortunately, I was not so lost in my own script-writing reverie that I missed the true teachable moment two-thirds of the way into the episode, when a heterosexual father had "the talk" with his gay son. The dad's lines were written with such artistry and delivered with such sensitivity that my own words vanished from my mind as I listened intently.  Then they cut to commercial, and the pressure to seize a teachable moment soared.

"Ask her a question," a voice inside my brain whispered.  

"What did you think of Kurt's dad?" I asked her from the other side of the couch.  

"He was amazing," she replied. "He's the parent everyone wishes they had."

No kidding.  It was that good.  I wondered whether I could download a transcript and save it for future use with my son.

Last week, the ultimate teachable moment was delivered by Glee.  I had certainly been anticipating the gay character's first kiss, as the storyline has been leading toward it for more than a season.  I fully expected that it would be handled realistically and sensitively, and it was, perhaps even more so than many of the heterosexual kissing intrusions to the plot.  I was completely unprepared, however, for my daughter's response.  

In the thirty seconds of tender dialogue following the kiss and leading toward a commercial break, my mind began racing toward the teachable moment. I knew just what I wanted to communicate to my child about love, exactly what values I wanted to impart about sexual orientation. I lowered the volume as they cut to commercial and turned my entire body sideways on the couch to make eye contact with my child.  But before I could open my mouth to formulate a coherent phrase, she spoke.  "That was so sweet," she said.  "Kurt waited a long time for his first kiss."

"Yes, he did," I replied, nodding.

And that was all that needed to be said.  The skillful, teen-aged teacher had seized upon the teachable moment, sharing a life lesson with her mother that might have otherwise been overlooked:  Parents impart their values to their children every day, in a thousand teachable moments, over the course of a lifetime.  I learned that I had achieved my curricular objective without need of an intrusion.  That was so sweet.

There are places I remember...

Do you have a soundtrack of your life? You know, songs that play in your mind at certain times or memories that are deeply associated with particular music? Maybe it’s only me…

I recently visited a place that I used to frequent a number of years ago, and there I saw some people who I now see only periodically.   Both the place and the people are still a part of my life, but not my everyday life.  What a delight to return to a place that feels like home and to rekindle friendships from a previous time!

I found that my spending the weekend there not only evoked a case of nostalgia, but it also activated my soundtrack: The Beatles' song "In My Life" has been popping into my head during these past few weeks, as I reflect on my affection for people and things that went before.

 

 .

Tehilah la-Avodah: A Psalm in Praise of Meaningful Work

I just received a small slice of perfection in the form of a perfectly-worded question.  I had asked a fellow author, whom I recently friended on Facebook, whether he thought I should pursue a job opportunity about which I am ambivalent.  His reply was stunning, both in its simplicity and its brilliance.  He asked me: “What can you do to create a path for yourself so that you can do the work you love?”

I am so grateful for his reminder that I must embrace the process of my work. I am mindful of this lesson when I wear my potter’s jeans and use my artist’s brain. But sometimes —because of the pressure to achieve financial security from my writing—when I am wearing my writer’s lenses and using my author’s brain I simply forget to focus and live in the moment.  

So, now I am logging off to follow the path to the work that I love. I am responding to an urgent need— in this moment— to write in my notebook, because writing long-hand is a completely different experience and gets totally different results from composing at the computer keyboard. Then I will head to the basement to the glazing table, where more than a dozen pieces of pottery await my attention.   

Zeh hayom asah Adonai – nagilah v’nismikhah bo: Today is the day God created – let’s sing and rejoice on it! 

B'nai Horin - Children of Liberty

It has been said that no one was ever moved to change because of a pie chart or bar graph. 

What can have a more powerful effect on us than facts and figures? Myths and legends, the stories that we tell about our lives, can inspire us to change.  A well-told story contains ideas about morality, justice and truth, translated from grand and abstract ideas into a compelling narrative.  Such stories have the power to move us. 

These stories told through music have the power to redeem us.

Music awakens us, allows us to hear each other.  Ideas can be grand, facts can be weighty; yet words alone often fail.  Music, however, communicates deeper truths.

This brief video shares a story: A group of Israeli friends wanted to communicate their feelings to their Egyptian neighbors, so they got together and recorded a song they called “Children of Liberty.”  I have no doubt that they chose music as their mode of expression because they knew that the sounds of their instruments and their voices would cleanse the ears of their listeners, washing away political slogans and negotiations, hostilities and struggles.   Then their music could fill the hearts of their listeners and transform their souls.

In honor of the MJCCA's upcoming conference Bash with a Splash, I would like to share an article that I wrote seven years ago about my first visit to an Atlanta mikvah (ritual bath).  Don't miss this important opportunity to learn: Sunday, February 27th at Congregation B'nai Torah.  Just click on the link above for more information!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Floating Between the Denominations*

I am no longer surprised when people-- upon hearing that I don’t drive or answer the telephone on the Sabbath-- ask me if I am Orthodox.  The labels of denominations, and the assumptions about their adherents’ religious practices, are so ingrained that people momentarily forget that Orthodox women cannot be ordained as rabbis.  Personally, I enjoy defying the labels, finding the places where it is possible to be “just Jewish” and observe the mitzvot, commandments.

The week that we relocated to Atlanta I needed to go to the mikvah, ritual bath. I found a listing in a local Jewish directory and called to inquire about summer hours.  From the recorded message I learned that a woman must make an appointment 72 hours in advance and is given 20 minutes in the schedule to prepare and immerse.  In my old neighborhood all you had to do was show up, and with half a dozen preparation rooms there was hardly ever a wait.  Despite my last-minute call, I was able to secure 20 minutes that evening. 

In New York, the mikvah attendant provided her clientele relative anonymity and freedom from small talk.  It’s not that she didn’t care who was patronizing the mikvah, it’s just that in what is arguably the most Jewish city in the world the mikvah attendant couldn’t possibly know everyone.  She lived in the house attached to the mikvah and treated the women who visited there as guests in her home.  She was a noble and modest hostess-- never judgmental, always unobtrusive.  It was customary to give her a little extra, a gratuity, for her devotion to avodat kodesh, holy work. 

 That evening I was greeted by the attendant warmly with the requisite question: “Are you new in town or just visiting?”

“New in town,” I replied.  “We just moved here from New York.”

“Welcome! That’s great. We love it here.” The mikvah attendant had immigrated from South Africa many years earlier.

She followed up then, asking about why we had moved, whether we had family in town and where we were living.  She seemed surprised to learn that we were living within walking distance to a Conservative synagogue. So I admitted that I was employed there, but omitted the detail that I was serving as a rabbi in the congregation.  I didn’t want to burden her with explanations about non-Orthodox women visiting the mikvah or walking to synagogue on the Sabbath. I assumed that such a combination of ritual practices would be alien to her.   

Finally, the small talk was over and she showed me to the back room, where I prepared for immersion.  Later, when I paid her, she followed me out to my car. Giving me back a few dollars she said, "It’s only 12 bucks.”

I mumbled something about it being customary in New York to tip the attendant. 

“We’re volunteers here, so that isn’t necessary.”

As I turned to go, she said quietly, “tizki b’mitzvos,” which translates “be strengthened by [your observance of the] commandments. Clearly, I had misjudged her as judging me.  She recognized that any Jewish woman could be devoted to the mikvah--nowhere else are the fluid boundaries of Judaism’s denominations so apparent.  Thanks to a dedicated cadre of volunteers, the mikvah remains functional, and the observance of its ritual viable.  I promised myself to be a noble and modest guest in her home.

In time I grew accustomed to visiting the mikvah in Atlanta. I still have to remember to call 72 hours in advance, but the woman who coordinates appointments is kind to me when I forget. I have met most of the volunteer attendants and I’ve stripped myself, so to speak, of any disguises; now many of these women know that I am a Conservative rabbi.  In this community of women, I am happiest floating between the denominations, resisting labels and observing the mitzvot to the best of my ability. 

*An excerpt of this essay originally appeared in Sacred Days: A Weekly Planner for the Jewish Year, 2004-2005, published by CLAL – The National Jewish Center for Learning and Leadership.

Ms. Green Jeans

It was pretty empty in Target at 8:30 on Monday morning.  Two cashiers were standing together in the checkout aisle.  I admit to eavesdropping for just a moment on their Girl Talk: One had just gotten highlights and the other was admiring them, asking for the name of the salon where she’d had them done. “I did them myself,” she said proudly.  I was so impressed that I couldn't hold back, and I complimented her work.  That's when she replied, "Great bag! Did you make it?"

Now I am used to women remarking about my bag.  No, I didn't make it--I wish I had that kind of skill.  I don't even own a sewing machine.  But the bag was Made with Heart in the USA, according to a label stitched by hand to the inside lining.  I bought it at a consignment shop, so I reckon that this pair of Levi's is on its third life.  I call it my "green jeans" purse, as I like to tell its admirers who stop me in stores and parking lots on a regular basis. So the early morning conversation at Target was not particularly notable. 

The one a few weeks ago at Panera, however, was astonishing.  I was picking up a sandwich for my daughter and set my purse down on the counter.  Two young men-- in their early twenties I would guess-- said in unison: "Cool bag!" Then one added, "What a clever idea." I was so surprised that I almost dropped the sandwich.  Within days, several other men had commented on the purse, one or two even asking me if I had created it and admiring the handiwork of the seamstress, who had expertly attached the leather strap and glittery belt buckle.

I regret that I was close-minded, thinking that only women would notice my purse.  I should have realized that excellent craftsmanship and artistic recycling efforts can be admired by all.  Doesn't everyone love to see a pair of Levi's with a purpose?!

There's No Place Like Home

Research has demonstrated that scents can evoke strong memories and emotions; our sense of smell may be our most powerful sense. But I would like to suggest that our sense of place -- being centered and firmly attached to the ground beneath our feet-- is also powerful.  I am not talking about a pleasant nostalgia for somewhere you have been, but rather a kind of geographic memory that is deeply embedded within. 

For me New York City is that place. My sense of geographic connection is strongest there. It is where my pulse -- and the pace at which I walk the streets-- seems to be synchronized with the place itself.  When I first realized this about myself I thought I was strange.  But listening to a podcast of WNYC's Radiolab, I learned that what I was feeling can be explained scientifically. In "It's Alive," the hosts of Radiolab explored what makes cities unique, including the physics and mathematical formulas of individual cities.  Now I have come to understand that my feeling displaced in Atlanta is not strange.  It's just that I am a stranger here.

Recently, I was sharing my observations about geographic memory with a friend, explaining that while living in Atlanta for more than a decade I have maintained my desire to go home.  He described his life here as "living in the place of paradox." He enjoys teaching at a Progressive school in a Conservative county in a Red State, where life requires real work. I imagine it must sometimes feel like pushing a boulder uphill.  This is an interesting contrast to living in the place of comfort, where if nothing needs fixing, it is easy to become accustomed to coasting downhill.

Creativity stems from discomfort and discontent, whereas complacency stems from comfort. For this reason alone, I don't regret living in the place of paradox. Had I not lived here I might never have enjoyed the transformative experiences of sitting at the potter’s wheel, writing a book and driving a minivan.  I have worked side by side with artists and made loyal friends at Camp Ramah Darom; expanded my world view and forged an identity as a parent at High Meadows School; and enjoyed the privilege of serving Jewish communities in smaller cities in Alabama and Georgia.  Living far from the center of the Jewish world has forced me to strive as a rabbi, to work earnestly at imparting Jewish wisdom to my students. Moreover, I have met unaccountably brave and unbelievably kind people in the south.  They have enriched my life in ways that I cannot begin to describe in this essay.

Yet, after more than a decade in Paradox, I continue to yearn for the comfort of Home. My own children, even the two who were born in NYC, get annoyed with me when I say this aloud, and I am not unsympathetic to their discomfort with my discomfort in Paradox.  After all, this is the only home that they remember. They are unaware that we are strangers living in a strange land; that we came for a sojourn and became more rooted to this place than I had originally intended. My family resides here-- through employment and mortgage loans it has become home-- but I am still searching for the shoes that will transport me from the place of paradox to the land where my feet are most grounded.

Wednesday the Rabbi Said Kaddish

Growing up, all I knew about the Kaddish was that it was recited by children whose parents were dead, thus I was absolutely forbidden from saying it.  An important tenet of folk religion --otherwise known as superstition-- is that a child who recites Kaddish tempts the Angel of Death to take his or her parents from this earth.  Traveling the country and teaching, I have found this tradition to be universally known and observed by Jews.

During my second year in rabbinical school I studied the history of the Kaddish and its role in Jewish liturgy.  I was already aware that the words of the prayer had nothing to do with death, and that the person leading the recitation was in fact heaping praise upon God.  But I was surprised to learn that the origin of the Kaddish was not as a mourner's prayer at all.  In its ancient formulation, as the Rabbi's Kaddish or Kaddish d'Rabbanan, it was recited upon the conclusion of Torah study. The custom of mourners saying Kaddish arose centuries later.

It was in Rabbi Joel Roth's classroom that I abandoned my attachment to superstitions about not saying the Kaddish and allowed the prayer to assert its primacy in my daily life. Like his colleagues in the Talmud & Rabbinics department, Rabbi Roth followed a pedagogic approach to the text that included calling upon the students to read, translate and explain passages without warning. This somewhat intimidating practice ensured that no student would attend class unprepared.  Every class period was effectively a pop quiz, at least for the students called upon to read that day.  It was also an opportunity for individual students to demonstrate their progress, which Rabbi Roth both encouraged and rewarded.  

Toward the end of every 90-minute class, before we closed our volumes of Talmud, Rabbi Roth would take a laminated sheet from his desk and hand it to the student who "stood out" that day from among the group.  Then we all stood together to recite the Rabbi's Kaddish. When this privilege, an invitation to lead the prayer, was bestowed upon me for the first time that semester, my heart rejoiced.  I felt my praises of God's name rise up to join the chorus of angels in heaven.  I still remember how I felt that morning, nearly half a lifetime ago. 

These days, I attend a weekly Torah study at my doctor's office. It is comprised of adult learners who are professionals in other fields. As a rabbi and the assigned facilitator, I am often the only one present who has prepared the text prior to class.  Usually other members of the group volunteer to read aloud from the text, ask questions about the translations and commentaries, and readily offer their own interpretations of the material.  At a well-attended session, six to eight friends sit around a conference table, enjoying coffee and snacks with Torah study and conversation.  This past Wednesday, however, our host spent half the class moving chairs from every exam room into the break room.  At the end of the hour I realized that we had a minyan – the quorum needed to say the Rabbi’s Kaddish.  We quickly ascertained which direction was east, and I scrolled through the prayer book on my iPhone to find the words, fondly recalling Rabbi Roth’s laminated sheet.  My heart sang as the chorus of students stood with me to praise God's name. 

Book Tour Travel Log: Lessons from Florida

A multi-generational audience gathered in Jacksonville Jewish Center's Social Hall on Sunday morning to attend a session titled Bubbemeises: True stories or Stories about Truth? We began by sharing various traditions that we learned from our parents and grandparents, listing the customs that comprise Jewish folk religion, also known as superstitions.

One grandmother courageously demonstrated how a person is to spit in the evil eye, affording me an opportunity to explain that in Yiddish we say "pooh, pooh, pooh," while in Hebrew it is "tooh, tooh, tooh."  Always three times, in keeping with the ancients' tendency toward odd numbers.  Her son began to recall folk traditions that she claimed to have forgotten along the way.  It was a rare half-hour of sharing and finding commonalities across generational, cultural and even religious boundaries. As a teacher, I was delighted to be engaged in this richly textured conversation.  As an author, I was enthralled to continue making connections with my readers, signing copies of my book and chatting informally with the workshop participants after the formal presentation concluded. 

In the years since I took my sabbatical and left the classroom, I have learned that I am fully capable of pursuing a career as a writer.  But writing is a solitary pursuit, and presents a real challenge to the social being.  I made a marvelous discovery this weekend in Florida: The Book Tour provides me a perfect means of balancing my time between living in the real world and living in my own mind.

If you would like to travel with me on a Virtual Book Tour, please visit the Facebook page of Found in Translation: Common Words of Uncommon Wisdom and press the "like" button at the top of the profile page. I will post travel logs, photos and other information there in the coming weeks.  You will also find a link to amazon.com, where you can be among the first to review the book and purchase the book as a gift --taking advantage of their free shipping.  Join me in my journey as we "spread the words" worldwide!

How do you get to Carnegie Hall?

I have been writing all my life.  First as a student, and then later as a rabbi and teacher. But now that I am a writer, I am beginning to appreciate the discipline that true writing requires.  

This is my writer's notebook:

I never go anywhere without it.  If you see me around town, there's a good chance that I will be leaning over it and scribbling away.  While I am not particular about notebooks -- any "cow book" or lined journal will suffice-- I have found a favorite pen, which is usually hooked over the page as a bookmark.  Sometimes I sketch or highlight certain ideas, while I am mulling over whether I want to turn my jotted notes and musings into a full essay.  I NEVER take my notebook out at a red light, but I have pulled over to capture a fleeting thought. I like to browse through my notebook when I arrive early to pick up the kids and turn off my engine to wait in the carpool line.

Monday mornings, I invest a chunk of time in the revision and publishing part of the writing process.  I employ every ounce of my self-discipline to post an essay on my blog every Monday by late afternoon, even when my kids are home with me for a snow day or national holiday.  I truly believe that the way to become a good writer is the same way you get to Carnegie Hall.  So I have been practicing a lot, and I am grateful when I hear from readers-- not only from my mom-- that they are enjoying the essays.  Of course, it's great to hear from Mom, too.

This morning I was rifling through an old notebook and finally wrote a 1,125 word essay that I have been meaning to write for more than a year.  Instead of posting it, though, I decided to give you a glimpse into the writer's mind and a brief insight about how a person might progress from an incidental writer to a practicing writer. 

I have sent the lengthier piece to a colleague who I hope will publish it in a journal.  Perhaps, some Monday morning in the future, I will post a link to share those words, as well.

After the Storm

After the firestorm of bullets a nine-year-old girl is dead.  Much ink will be spilled about the blood that was spilled.  Pundits and politicians will lay blame at the feet of their opponents.  The NRA will defend the right of mentally unbalanced individuals to bear arms.  Nothing much will change.  

This may very well be the most depressing thought of my day. From time immemorial, human beings have made an awful mess of the world that God gave us to inhabit.  We have repeatedly failed to achieve our potential to be our best selves. Instead of selflessly tilling and tending the paradise in which we live, we destroy the garden until it becomes hell on earth. 

In one biblical story, it is the words of a woman that precipitates the fall from grace. To see the modern parallel, one must turn to cached pages on the internet, for the woman has learned after several thousand years to eradicate the evidence of her misdeed. Will there be ramifications of her having put such a negative energy into the world?  Or will nothing much change after the detritus of the storm is cleared away and we attempt a return to normalcy?

For solace, I turn not to the biblical story itself but to its interpretation by an artist, Jheronimus Bosch, who depicted the aftermath of the storm using oil paints and his fertile imagination. In his painting of the world after the flood, we see the human beings who have survived the storm attempting to inhabit the earth once more.  They are stranded in a boat which teeters on the precipice. They have not yet recovered their balance, but soon they will stand firmly again on the land.  They are poised to do better this time, to fulfill God's promise to return to Eden.  It is in this moment-- after the storm-- that anything is possible.

Hey is NOT for Horses

I met Becky during Freshman Orientation week, which was called Customs Week at Haverford College.  She was my first friend from south of the Mason-Dixon line and I learned one of her Carolina customs immediately. 

Becky's typical greeting was “Hey!”  I remember thinking that it was such a strange greeting.  My Brooklyn-born parents considered hey to be rude.  If we ever said hey to them, they would inevitably reply: "Hay is for horses."  Becky said hey every single time she saw me.  I wondered what my parents would make of her when they met her on Parents Weekend.

Now, more than 25 years later, having moved to Atlanta and, regrettably, no longer in contact with Becky, I find myself saying Hey! Of all the southern regionalisms, the only one that I have unconsciously adopted is the one that I most assiduously resisted.  Of course, I had also roundly rejected y'all (too folksy) and all y'all (redundant), fixin' to rain (God as the chief plumber of heaven?) and might could (temptingly vague, but sounds odd).  When I noticed myself passing people on the street and greeting them as Becky did, I realized that I had slipped into speaking southern.  Clearly, such behavior from a die-hard Yankee Carpetbagger demands justification.

First, hey is somehow friendlier than hi, perhaps because it can be pronounced southern, the diphthong of the "ay" emphasized, even drawn out into its own syllable.  While gently drawling hey, holding the vowel an extra moment in his or her mouth, the speaker maintains eye contact and a smile.  In NYC, I walk the streets not making eye contact or smiling at all, instead softly exhaling my breath into silent vocalizations and debating the merits of living in the greatest city on earth where strangers do not share pleasantries. 

I have found no superior substitute for hey. "Good morning" is excellent before noon, but "good afternoon" and "good evening" are too many syllables and too formal for sidewalks.  Sometimes, when I greet my neighbor I am vaguely aware of sounding like a local, but the “Hey!” has left my lips before it registers in my brain.  As I pass by, still smiling, I think of Becky and wish her a silent hey, wherever she is now.