Turning the World Off

nce a week, I get to turn the world off. No cell phones, no computers, no television, and no iPods allowed for a 25 hour period.  It’s called Shabbes.

God made the world and on the seventh day He rested. He stopped and took stock of what He had done. And for thousands of years, Jews have been emulating this pattern.

We got our first computer a bit later than most, only in 2000. The world seems to have burst into a rainbow of media since that time with people now dependent on devices to manage just about every facet of their lives.

That doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Most of the time, I’m convinced it’s a wondrous thing.


That’s why it comes as a bit of a surprise to me, how much I revel in accessing NONE of my gadgets, screens, and keyboards on Shabbes.

What I do is put up my feet and READ. I read and read and read and then I read some more.

Prior to getting our first PC, I read 5-7 books a week. I have always loved to read. Well, not quite always.

It took a few years for me to really develop the knack. I was in the slow reading group in first grade. But by third grade, I was not only reading David Copperfield, I was writing short stories. I drank in words and poured them out only to take in more. The thirst never ended.

I was sorry when I saw how media came and replaced the reading habit in my life. But once a week, I get to close it all down, shut off the world and let reading back into my life. Each week, it seems like nothing short of a miracle.

I have a cooking marathon on Friday because we don’t cook on Shabbes. Then I take a luxurious, hot bath. I put on my Shabbes robe (black velour with gold piping) and light 14 candles, one for each member of my family.

Then I get in bed, close my eyes and smile at how good it feels to put my feet up. I open my eyes and reach over to the stack of books that sits in readiness on my bedside nightstand. I feel like a queen, spoiled for choice, every single week.

 Thank God for Shabbes.

My Homemade sourdough Challoh. Photo Credit: Natan Epstein

Fun is Good

I am in love with a new app. It's called Pinterest and you have to get an invite from a member to join. It's like a virtual bulletin board.

You put in a search term and you come to a page where people have "pinned" related items they have found on the web. One can also create a page or pin and repin items, and follow people but I'm not that advanced yet. I'm still playing around and learning the ropes. Right now, I'm just having a blast searching for stuff and seeing the wealth of really cool items that come up.

I joined Pinterest because one prospective employer asked if I had experience with Pinterest and Quora. I didn't even know what they were. Needless to say, I did not get that job. But the good news is that the failed interview turned me on to this new, cool toy.

Someone on one of the myriad job lists I'd joined asked if anyone on the list had Pinterest and if they'd be willing to send him an invite. Another member of the list responded onlist saying, "Sure thing. Anyone else?"

And so I bit the bullet, not really knowing what to expect.

I'm driving my Facebook friends a little crazy with my new love, posting picture after picture of amazing desserts. Cousin Nili commented, "What are you DOING?? Are you trying to KILL me??"

I'm like a kid in a candy store. I just can't help myself.

Here are some of the things I found  today:

I searched "Zoya" because my girlfriend Leora Hyman told me about this great cosmetics company and I thought I might find some interesting things to show her. I found this Matte Velvet Lacquer. I never saw matte nail polish before.

Definitely cool.

 

Source: lh3.ggpht.com via Catherine on Pinterest

Next I searched for "handwoven" because my mother, one sister, and two good friends are weavers. I found this gorgeous Kilim rug:

Source: westelm.com via Katie on Pinterest

Aren't the colors amazing?

Next I looked up "food porn" and found this:

Fresh figs with ricotta and honey

Source: leitesculinaria.com via Danielle on Pinterest

Now I was getting hungry. I decided to look up "gourmet grilled cheese" and found this:

Source: nigella.com via Velia on Pinterest

Then I decide that I wanted to find the perfect silver sandal. I entered "silver sandal" and while it may not be THE sandal, it's pretty nice...I'd take it:

Source: rstyle.me via Xiaohan on Pinterest

I decided to see what came up for "vintage" and found this fairytale creation of a shoe. It's really for a bride and so alas, not for this happily married woman, but maybe I can keep it in mind for my daughters.

Source: images.search.yahoo.com via Meagan on Pinterest

Throwing hubby a bone, I then searched for "B52 bomber" and found this neat photograph:

Source: blog.iso50.com via Caleb on Pinterest

Pinterest is a blast and I'm just getting started. Each pinned picture takes you to a related website. If it's food, for instance, you might find a recipe or a way to order the item online.

Now all that's left is to wangle an invite to Quora to find out what THAT'S all about. Check out Pinterest, you'll be glad you did. As the good Dr. Seuss said, "If you never did you should. These things are fun and fun is good."

The American Legacy

ov was rummaging through some old papers this morning and came upon this gem of a cartoon, drawn in a childish hand.

It's an honor, Mister President. I'm a huge fan. 

We think Yitzchak drew this one, not sure when. We'll have to wait until he comes home from school to ask him.

But aside from making us laugh and providing parental joy over the cleverness of our child, Dov made an interesting observation: All of our children were born and raised in Israel and yet the flavor of their humor is American. That is after all, the legacy we handed down to them, without even trying.

To someone else, it may seem like forsaking America to come live in Israel is like us turning our backs on our Motherland. But it wasn't, isn't, like that at all. Dov and I love America. So much so that sometimes the title of a certain awful, awful song comes to mind:

I can't speak for Dov, but I often feel torn between the country of my birth and my new love: Israel. I have never stopped loving America, but I love Israel, too. I had to choose, you see, and so I chose Israel, because she needs all the love and support she can get. But still, Dov and I are as American as apple pie and Mom. Irrevocably so.

I'm glad my children identify with their American heritage. I can feel good about that because I am proud of my American heritage. America is a beautiful land that gave sanctuary to my ancestors. In America, for the first time, they were able to get ahead. I am proud of my American work ethic and so many other aspects of the gift that is my American heritage.

In the final analysis, there is another reason I don't mind my children giving honor in their everyday lives to the land of their parental heritage: I know that deep down, NONE of them want to leave Israel for the largesse of America, at least not for the long term. Once upon a time, we thought about leaving during a time of financial distress. At the very suggestion of leaving Israel, my eldest daughter burst into a very different song than the one cited above:

This song is called "Kan" which is Hebrew for "Here," and is poignant like no other Israeli song I know.

Here
Kan beiti, po ani noladeti	Here is my home, here I was born
Bamishor asher al sfat hayam	On the plain by the sea
Kan hachaverim itam gadalti	Here are the friends I grew up with
Ve'en li shum makom acher ba'olam	And I have no other place in the world
En li shum makom acher ba'olam	I have no other place in the world
Kan beiti, po ani sichakti	Here is my home, here I would play
Bashfela asher al gav hahar	In the lowlands by the mountainside
Kan min habe'er shatiti maim	Here I drank water from the well
Veshatalti deshe bamidbar	And I planted grass in the desert
Veshatalti deshe bamidbar	And I planted grass in the desert
Kan noladeti, kan noldu li yeladai	Here I was born, here my children were born
Kan baniti et beiti bishtei yadai	Here I built my home with my own two hands
Kan gam ata iti vechan kol elef yedidai	Here you are also with me and here are all of my thousand friends
Ve'achrei shanim alpaim, sof lindudai	And after two thousand years, an end to my wandering
Kan et kol shirai ani niganti	Here I played all my songs
Vehalachti bemasa leili	And I walked on a nightly journey
Kan bine'urai ani heganti	Here in my youth I defended
Al chelkat ha'Elohim sheli	My own God's little acre
Al chelkat ha'Elohim sheli	My own God's little acre
Kan noladeti, kan noldu li yeladai	Here I was born, here my children were born
Kan baniti et beiti bishtei yadai	Here I built my home with my own two hands
Kan gam ata iti vechan kol elef yedidai	Here you are also with me and here are all off my thousand friends
Ve'achrei shanim alpaim, sof lindudai	And after two thousand years, an end to my wandering
Kan	Here
Kan et shulchani ani arachti	Here I set my table
Pat shel lechem, perach ra'anan	A piece of bread, a fresh flower
Delet lashchenim ani patachti	I opened a door to the neighbours
Umi sheba, nomar lo "Ahalan"	And we'll say "Ahalan" to whoever comes
("Ahalan")	("Ahalan")
Umi sheba, nomar lo "Ahalan"	And we'll say "Ahalan" to whoever comes
Kan noladeti, kan noldu li yeladai	Here I was born, here my children were born
Kan baniti et beiti bishtei yadai	Here I built my home with my own two hands
Kan gam ata iti vechan kol elef yedidai	Here you are also with me and here are all of my thousand friends
Ve'achrei shanim alpaim, sof lindudai	And after two thousand years, an end to my wandering
Kan gam ata iti vechan kol elef yedidai	Here you are also with me and here are all of my thousand friends
Ve'achrei shanim alpaim	And after two thousand years
Achrei shanim alpaim	After two thousand years
Kan noladeti, kan noldu li yeladai	Here I was born, here my children were born
Kan baniti et beiti bishtei yadai	Here I built my home with my own two hands
Kan gam ata iti vechan kol elef yedidai	Here you are also with me and here are all of my thousand friends
Ve'achrei shanim alpaim, sof lindudai	And after two thousand years an end to my wandering
Kan gam ata iti vechan kol elef yedidai	Here you are also with me and here are all of my thousand friends
Ve'achrei shanim alpaim	And after two thousand years
Sof, sof lindudai	An end, an end to my wandering

Translation by Tamar Leachtman.

On the Cusp

11 years earlier at Elyahu's Bar Mitzvah

Yesterday at his Hanachat Tefilin

hen kids are little, they think their parents are the bee’s knees. Mom and Dad can do no wrong. But the adulation gives way all too soon. When adolescence comes, the tables are turned and it often seems that Mom and Dad can do no RIGHT.

Left to right: Simcha, Ayala, Natan,Gedalia, Dov, Akiva, Shua, Moshe, Levi, Aharon, Eli, Yitzchak, Me, Aharon, Malka, Yocheved, Shmuel.

Brother in-Law Simcha offers the benefit of his experience in all matters phylactery to Yitzchak.

Little brother Asher looks on in anticipation of his own special day two years hence.

Left to right: Simcha, Levi, Gedalia, and Akiva.

Yitzchak is honored with "glila" which involves rolling the Torah scroll and replacing the decorative cover.

Lots of brothers and a brother in-law to help.

Me and Shua.

Psychologist Charles Williams coined an acronym to describe the stages of the father-son relationship from earliest childhood through the adult years: IDEAL. The link here takes you to an (unattributed) article of mine that describes these stages. The acronym stands for Idolization, Discordance, Evolution, Acceptance, and Legacy.

But the acronym also somewhat fits the picture of the general relationship of child to parent, without taking gender into account. The idolization phase fits what my eight sons seemed to feel for me in their early years. With all of them, adoration for me just shone from their eyes and that, more than anything, was the hardest thing for me to give up when I closed the gates and said no more children.

Yitzchak epstein's "hanachat tfilin" from IFL network on Vimeo.


By that time, I knew all too well the rocky road between adolescence and full adulthood when a son’s expressions of love for me became too few to count. Still there is a period of time before acne and rebellion when a son will still deign to know my opinion—still dare and care to seek my approval—and that is at their bar mitzvahs. At every one of my son’s bar mitzvahs, there would come a time when said son would glance beyond the dividing wall that separates men and women at prayer, look to catch my eye, and offer up a shy smile.

Left to right: Shua, Asher, Elyahu, Yitzchak, Natan, Me, Aharon

I knew what they wanted. They wanted me to notice and bestow a return smile of warmth, approval, and pride. No one handed me the script. No one handed THEM a script. But we both knew our parts.

Left to right: Eli, Aharon, Yitzchak

Left to right: Aharon, SIL Simcha Samuels, Yitzchak, Moshe.

After the ritual repeated itself for the third time, at Elyahu’s bar mitzvah, I wised up and noticed the pattern. I learned to watch out for the silent gift offered up by each son and to hold on to that gift through those rough years ahead, until full manhood would arrive and they would somehow relearn their appreciation of me. Of course, the adoration would be gone and have been replaced by plain old respect and love, but at least things would normalize: another pattern I noticed.

Dov calls this shot: Dark Alley Frummies. From left to right: Aharon, Asher, Natan, Shua, Elyahu

Shua shows Yitzchak how it's done.

So yesterday was Yitzchak’s date with leather: the first time he would don phylacteries. All my sons showed up at the Western Wall for the event and I thought my heart would burst, it was so full of maternal love and pride. There were two pictures presenting to me: that of my eight sons all together at the Wall in prayer, and a second picture: Yitzchak on that cusp between childhood and manhood, a sweet child donning the garb of adulthood. I watched, and sure enough Yitzchak's smile came beaming at me through the divider, filling up my tank of maternal joy for at least a few years, until such time as my 11 year-old, Asher, reaches the age of bar mitzvah. God Willing.

The deed is done

Film credit: My son Natan Epstein :-) Israeltech Productions

Leather's in the Air

omorrow, my son Yitzchak will don phylacteries for the first time. The custom is for the boy to start getting the hang of phylactery-winding a month shy of his Bar Mitzvah. Yitzchak's birthday is the eighth day of Chanuka, and so the big day for leather straps (Nyuh uh uh) falls tomorrow.

We're going to set out for the Western Wall early in the morning and Yitzchak will do the deed at the Wall with immediate family in attendance. We'll put out some pastries and drinks and then pack up the kids for the ride back to Efrat. Then we'll go to Yitzchak's school and have some more pastries and drinks with his classmates and teachers.

I'm thrilled because this is a win-win situation for me. I get to see all my kids at once. I watch Yitzchak reach an important milestone. I get to see the Wall again. My son gets to reach a milestone at the Wall. And best of all: I don't have to fuss or do much at all except show up and schep nachas (reap joy).

For the last week or so, Yitzchak has been doing a little personal countdown: "I can't believe that in one week, I will have a hanachas tfillin (donning phylacteries ceremony). I can't believe that in three days I will be old enough to put on tfillin."

And so on and so forth.

Dov and I can't help but get a kick out of him because this particular child has the sweetest little boy's voice in the world. He sings like an angel in the pure high voice of a child. Yet according to Jewish law, he's becoming a man. We just smile to think about it and go with the flow. He may not have the outer trappings that come with being a man, but we don't worry that the voice change, acne, and adolescent awkwardness have not yet arrived. We're in no hurry and we're happy to make a fuss over our little man.

Yitzchak is a nudnik in some ways, but he's also a deep thinker and quite earnest. I am very proud of him and expect him to have a brilliant future. He's that kind of kid. Sure I'm prejudiced. But as mother of the soon-to-be Bar Mitzvah boy I'm entitled to kvell (Yiddish for swell with pride), right?

The Thumper Paradigm

ne of my favorite movie lines comes from the animated Disney classic, Bambi. Thumper insults baby Bambi and Thumper's mother reprimands him, asking him to remember what his father always says. Thumper bows his head, ashamed, takes a deep breath and recites: "If you can't say something nice, [deep breath] don't say "nuffin" at all."


We like to say this in our home when the kids say insulting stuff to each other. It works as a catch-phrase, especially if you say it just like Thumper, so that it seems light and not accusatory. But it's a good rule of thumb for adults, as well.

I have a very fragile writer's ego. Another person's "constructive criticism" can lay me flat out and leave me unable to write for hours, days, or even weeks, until I manage to catch my equilibrium. Sound like an exaggeration? I swear it's not. It's God's truth.

Sue me, I'm human. I really need encouragement. Writing is like hanging your kishkes (Yiddish for guts) out there for all to see. It hurts when someone gives me even a valid criticism.

Funny how when you explain that, the people who hurt you try to tell you they are only being honest. "That's a poor word choice, there. I'm only being honest."

Sorry Chabibi (Arabic for buddy), I'm not buying it. That is stating an opinion and giving it a (fake) veneer of honest fact. Everyone is entitled to honest opinions, but opening one's mouth and sharing them is a different story. Better to stick to the Thumper Paradigm.

Thank goodness, my girlfriends are more sensitive. They are quick to make positive comments about my work and I imagine if they haven't got something nice to say, they keep it to themselves. Not because they are dishonest, but because they don't want to discourage me or hurt my feelings. And to my mind, refraining from discouraging people or hurting their feelings is a much higher spiritual level than speaking the truth.

Is constructive criticism important? Of course. But in the proper context. Watch the writer for signals. If the writer says, "Be kind. The editor tampered with this and I also had a specific readership to keep in mind," that's your key to find something, anything positive to say. And if you can't find SOMETHING positive to say, then apply the Thumper Paradigm.





My motives for writing may be sullied by my need for praise. I admit it: I gobble up praise and long for more. But there is a motive that supersedes my selfish emotional need: my wholehearted desire to assist my husband in providing for our large household. I don't think anyone could find quarrel with that motive.

So please, the next time you decide to become an armchair critic, remember the Thumper Paradigm and keep it to yourself.

Annoying Encounter

and I have known each other for years but are only friends on Facebook for a short time. In a recent thread, "L" proposed I create a blog, since I draw numerous comments on my Facebook threads. She is well-meaning and hoping to encourage my professional prospects.

I responded that I do have a blog, but friends prefer to comment ON Facebook, rather than on my blog, and no one clicks the Google Ads on my blog, either, so I just don't make any money writing there. When I ran into "L" at the local mom and pop store, we fell into a continuation of that Facebook discussion and she asked me, "Do you write about politics on your blog?"

I hedged the question by answering, "Sometimes," since my blog doesn't have much of a central focus. Some blogs are about food, other blogs are about politics, but my blog doesn't have any sort of cohesive narrative running through the entries other than that I write up things that are central to ME. Politics are a big part of my life, but so is food and genealogy and music. I'm a mishmash of a person and so my blog is a mishmash of a blog.

I've also been a mishmash of a blogger. Months can go by without a single new blog entry, even though I make resolutions now and again to write something, ANYTHING, each day. I can't seem to stick to the commitment entailed by a blog and here's why: It's hard writing into a vacuum.

The nature of writing a blog is different than that of writing a diary. A diary is for the diarist whereas, the blogger demands (or at least prays for or fervently desires) an audience. The lucky blogger attracts a wide audience and makes money. The other 99% do not. (I am smelling an Occupy Blogs movement on the horizon and its NOT a good smell. Nyuk.)

But back to "L" who continued, "Because if you write about politics it's better I don't follow you because I don't agree with your politics and if you write something political and I read it there, I won't like you anymore.

I mean, you're an intelligent person and I like a lot of what you write, but I don't like your political views and I'm afraid that if your blog is political, it will ruin my liking for you."

At that point, I shut up because--nu--she was already repeating herself.

By mutual unspoken agreement, we changed the subject, finished shopping, and went our separate ways.

But the exchange pissed me off.

"L" and I both live in a city where political beliefs are just about unanimous. We're all right wing. We live in Judea, in disputed territory the other side calls the Occupied West Bank. We both wear the settler label.

What made my politics so unpalatable to "L?" And do I really care?

I believe that "L's" real motive in this conversation was to get me to ask her to elaborate on her political views. But what she said made my hackles rise. I dug in my feet and refused to ask. "L" was letting me know she thought my political views inferior to her own. I was insulted and annoyed. Not in a major way. More like irked.

The good part of all this is that nobody reads what I write here and least of all, "L." So, I need not fear she'll read this and take offense :-)