Why do I write a blog? Why do I make myself do this day after day? Shouldn’t I be sleeping on this last morning of vacation?

For me, this has been a good vacation. I am ready to go back to the work world–or maybe I never left it. It is hard to separate out what is my work–being a rabbi–from my inner life. But part of the reason for a blog is that my writing it enables me to hold onto it just a little longer. Words and thoughts can be so ephemeral. It allows my congregants a glimpse into this process of finding G-d, of finding truth, of finding joy.

But really I do it for me.

So why was this an important vacation? I learned some really important things this trip. I learned that I am in exactly the right place at the right time. Is it hard work. Yes. Is it exhausting. Sure. Can it be all consuming? Uh huh. Would I trade it for anything else. Nope. Here in Elgin to stay and excited about it.

I learned that I don’t have to fear silence. That I need to incorporate more of it into my life–precisely so that I can do deeper and so that I don’t burn out doing all the things I need to do.

I learned something in that silence about trust. It seems in all my work on the Thirteen Attributes of the Divine, I missed the importance of a word. I was focused on chanun v’rachum and chesed. The idea that G-d is full of lovingkindness and compassion.

Emet means true or truth or maybe trust. Related is emunah (don’t ask how) from which we get amen, so be it, so be it be true.

So I woke up this morning thinking about trust. That’s the piece that this control freak is missing. The ability to trust. This seems huge. It is true that G-d loves me. Trust that G-d loves me. It is true that Simon loves me, so I should trust that Simon loves me. It is true that so many friends love me–they all showed up at Starbucks after all–so I should trust that they will continue to love me even if I am in Elgin. They have now for almost two years!

There are other things to trust. Trust that if I go to Kenya, I will be safe. Statistically that is true, even if it is a higher risk these days. (and that is something else I come back knowing. Kenya is a go!)

Trust that I will not be physically attacked again.

Trust that I know enough about the Book of Ruth to not be worried about my presentation, even though I am nervous. Trust that the congregation likes me. Trust the congregation. They can have a board meeting without me and they did. Trust that if I drive through a thunderstorm (likely today) I will not blow away to Oz.

Some have said that love is the opposite of fear. I think maybe it is really trust.
And now as I sit in this hotel room in Somerset, PA I am crying. Not tears of joy, not tears of fear or sadness. Maybe more relief?  Maybe realization is a better word.

Maybe trust is freedom…still in liberty bell mode too.

So those are the gifts from the sea and the silence that I take back from vacation. The question is can I hold onto them?

The birds heard it first. The word of G-d. The Ten Commandments. I am sure of it. I, too, would have been like the ancient Israelites, asleep. I would have missed it. Having prepared, having counted, having immersed, having studied until after 2 AM, I would have fallen asleep. No matter, even on a rainy morning here in Elgin, the birds would have heard and celebrated.

Here next to the wetlands, it is a riot of song. They started singing in earnest just before dawn. So loud they woke me up. It was beautiful.

The midrash teaches that the entire nation of Israel, men, women and children, even those yet unborn, slaves and strangers, stood at the foot of Sinai. 50 days after leaving Egypt, newly free, at least to worship whom they chose, they heard and saw “as one person with one heart.” The midrash continues that “No bird chirped, no fowl fluttered, no ox lowered, the angels did not fly, the Seraphim did not utter the Kedusha (Holy, Holy, Holy), the sea did not roar, the creatures did not speak. The universe was silent. And the voice came forth, “I am the Eternal, your G-d, Ani Adonai.”

Out of the silence and out of the quaking, shaking, seemingly on fire mountain, the voice of G-d thundered. Another midrash wonders what exactly did the Israelites hear. Some say the 10 sayings, others the first commandment, “I am the Lord your G-d.” Others say the first word of the first commandment which is “Anochi.” Still others the first letter of the first word of the first commandment, which is Aleph. Wait, you say, how can you hear aleph, it is a silent letter. Rabbi Larry Kushner teaches, “Almost but not quite. Open your mouth. Start to speak. There, that is the silent sound of aleph.” It means that G-d and the Israelite people, all people can have a conversation.

I have been thinking a lot about silence. My vacation started with silence. It ended with silence as I attended a Friends meeting, where they kept silence. For a half an hour no one spoke, just meditated. Maybe on the fact that G-d is. Maybe on light. We Jews speak about divine light. In the beginning G-d created light. A new light dawns (well maybe not today while it is raining, but it is brighter outside then when I got up!).

Or maybe that is the point too. The midrash tell us that the Israelites were so frightened by that first sound, their souls left their bodies. It was a like a physical death, like the shattering of their physical vessels, just like the primordial light of creation that shattered their vessels which we have to strive to put back together. That is tikkun Olam, repairing the world, gathering the sparks back together. Tikkun l’eil shavuot, Repairing the Night of Shavuot, staying up all night and studying are thus related.

After the Israelites fell asleep and woke up in time just to hear the first letter of the first word, and “died of fright”, the angels immediately descended from the heavens to revive them by sprinkling the dew of redemption.

Psalm 19 teaches us this, “The Torah of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul.” Just before that, it days, “The heavens declare the glory of G-d….Day unto day utters speech, and night unto night utters knowledge. There is no speech. There are no words. Neither is their voice heard.”

At first this seemed opposite of our morning prayers. Eloha Nishma Shnatata hi tehorahi says that the soul which was given me is pure. Nishmat Kol Chai echoes that thought saying that every living being, every living soul praises G-d, even the waves, the eagles soaring, the swiftest deer praise G-d. In Anita Diamant and Peri Smilow’s poetic words:
“If my mouth was filled with song
Like the ocean tide is strong
If my tongue could but give praise
Like the roaring of the waves
It would never, ever be enough.”

A version of Ahavat Olam says, “All the world sings to You, the world sings to you. The song of the trees when winds stirs their leaves. The song of the earth when rain soothes its thirst. The song of the sea when waves are set free. The song of the sky when hummingbirds fly.” (Anselm Rothchild)

But look closer. The waves, the eagles, the deer, don’t speak. Maybe our mothers were right, actions speak louder than words. Maybe our actions are what praise G-d, crashing waves, soaring eagles, swift deer.

Estelle Frankel in her book Sacred Therapy, one that I found tremendously useful earlier in my life, had this to say about brokenness and light. She encourages us to wrap ourselves in a tallit as a symbol of divine love and divine light. To feel G-ds protection and love. And then she quotes a poem by Rashani:

The Unbroken
There is a brokenness
out of which comes the unbroken,
a shatteredness out of which blooms the unshatterable.
There is a sorrow
beyond all grief which leads to joy
and a fragility
out of whose depth emerges strength.

There is a hollow space
too vast for words
through which we pass with each loss,
out of whose darkness we are sanctioned into being.

There is a cry deeper than all sound
whose serrated edges cut the heart
as we break open
to the place inside
which is unbreakable
and whole,
while learning to sing.

The broken tablets, the whole tablets, our broken selves looking for wholeness in the light and learning to sing.

It is remarkable. The birds the have stopped singing and all that can be heard now is the sound of rain. Cleansing, gentle rain. Maybe the dew of redemption. Shavuot morning. Amen.

For seven weeks I have been studying Ruth. Slowly over time. Savoring every word. It is a short book. Only four chapters. But there is so much in it. I knew that Ruth would be the subject of our Tikkun L’eil Shavuot.

I was hoping to find something in looking closely at Ruth, like we looked closely at Zipporah. And after this in depth analysis I am not sure it is there. This careful reading reminds me of the dangers of prooftexting. Of the need to be faithful to the text and not read into it what isn’t necessarily there. Yet, I was hoping to find the key to the puzzle of who is a Jew.

You see, Ruth is a Moabite woman, a widow, who decides, against her mother-in-law’s advice, that she will cling to Naomi. “Entreat me, urge me not to leave you and from following after you. For wherever you go, I will go, where you lodge I will lodge, your people shall be my people and your G-d, my G-d.”

Can she even convert? Traditional sources would say no precisely because she is a Moabite, forbidden from becoming one of us because they did not give us food and drink when we were wandering in the desert. However, the traditional commentaries get around this by saying it is OK because she is a Moabitess, a woman, and our argument was not with the women. It was the men who refused to welcome us in the desert. Frankly that doesn’t help me.

Did she convert? What is missing here in the actual text is our traditional recipe for conversion. No year long study with the rabbi. No beit din. No immersion in a ritual bath. No mikveh even in the commentary. I really wanted that to show up. So did she convert?

The rabbis say yes. Like traditional converts, three times Naomi pushes her away and tells her to return to her people.

For years I have wanted to go see the Liberty Bell. It has had a deep resonance for me. Perhaps because I was an American Studies major. Perhaps because I came East as a Girl Scout in 1975 ahead of the Bicentennial. Perhaps because its message, “Proclaim Liberty Throughout the Land…” is from Leviticus and really rings true to me.

Today was the day. Finally. We had perfect weather and a lovely lunch at the City Tavern–another place on my “bucket list” since working for SAP in Newtown Square and since being a colonial re-enactor.

But here is what I forgot, that made today so very special. The Liberty Bell belongs to all people, not just Americans. The promise of freedom, such a Jewish value resonates (I know, I need to get away from these bell puns!) with everyone. The promise of freedom gave hope to slaves and abolitionists, to suffragettes and civil rights workers, the Dalai Lama and Martin Luther King. To Nelson Mandela.

I can’t get away from Africa…Nelson Mandela said that The Liberty Bell is “a very significant symbol for the entire democratic world.” (Philadelphia Inquirer, July 4, 1993.) This year he was awarded the Philadelphia Martin Luther King Association Drum Major of Freedom award. Accepting the award posthumously, “The family of Nelson Mandela and the people of South Africa deeply appreciate the honor being bestowed on Jan. 20, on the father of our nation by the Martin Luther King, Jr. Association for Nonviolence. Dr. King and Nelson Mandela dreamed the same dream. None did more in their generation than Dr. King and Nelson Mandela to bend the long arm of the universe towards justice and advance humanity along our shared long walk to freedom.”

When walked around Independence Mall we heard Hebrew, French, Chinese, Italian, German. We saw Girl Scouts and school groups, one group even had on 2014 US Road Scholar T-Shirts. The history is important. It is palpable. But it is not just history. It is history still being made. Peter Paul and Mary sang it this way:

If I had a bell
I’d ring it in the morning
I’d ring it in the evening … all over this land,
I’d ring out danger
I’d ring out a warning
I’d ring out love between all of my brothers and my sisters
All over this land.
…
It’s a bell of freedom

Freedom is a gift, a promise, a right. Something that needs to be guarded and worked towards. The Israelites in the desert knew that as they stood before Sinai. The abolitionists knew that. Susan B. Anthony knew that. King and Mandela knew that. Ours is not to finish the task. Neither are we free (there’s that word again) to ignore.

It is a dream that cannot be ignored in this city of brotherly love…for all the inhabitants of our land.

What does it mean to be a friend? To be a Friend? My sister-in-law, who is a friend suggested that we stay at Pendle HIll, http://www.pendlehill.org, a retreat and conference center very close to Swarthmore run by the Quakers, the Friends. It is beautiful here. Lots of walking trails. Very green. Pretty. Quiet. Peaceful.

Through the years I have learned a little about Quakers. My therapist is a Jewish Quaker. She participates in Friends meeting in Cambridge. She likes their worship style with its commitment to quietude. She likes their commitment to social justice. To peacemaking. To keeping the light. It feeds her soul. Who am I to argue?

I think when I stay at a place like this I am expecting the big insight. But when you go looking for the big insight is usually not when you find one. This past week I sang Lechi Lach, based on Abraham’s journey. “Lechi Lach, to a land that I will show you. Lech lecha, to a place you do not know. Lechi lach on your journey I will bless you…and you shall be a blessing….lechi lach.” The rabbis teach that this means to go towards yourself, to go inward, to find yourself. Perhaps that is what this vacation has been about. Finding the quiet time to go inward.

Abraham didn’t know where he was going. Does any of us? Who could have predicted that I would be in Elgin, IL and that it would feel right? So I sang it this week at the mikveh.  It was sung at A’s Bat Mitzvah. It would be perfect for a college graduate too, unsure of the next step.

Perhaps it is reflective of Shavuot. The Israelites went the long way to Sinai. They didn’t know where they were going either! Then there they were! Standing at Sinai! And even though G-d and Moses told them to prepare, they were not ready. Are any of us ready? Shavuot will be in just a few days. I am not ready. How can I lead a discussion?

The rabbi told a story about a tree and a man, Natan, who wanted to give the tree a present. What did he have to give? Ultimately, the man whose very name means gift, who didn’t have any material thing, gave a blessing.

The story reminded me of a colleague, who is a rabbi and a singer songwriter who loves the song Little Drummer Boy. The only gift the little boy has is his song. The only gift we have is a blessing. The blessing of a beautiful spring morning full of blues and greens. The blessing of light. Of Beauty. Of presence. Of song. The blessing of family. Of love. Of friendship. The blessing of being awake and alive.

I am truly blessed. And I am grateful. Maybe that is the insight. Maybe that is what I bring back from this trip. That these blessings are available to us, wherever we are, whenever we need them. As the Quakers say, I will hold them in the light.

This weekend I attend two family simchas, joyous events. The first is my husband’s cousin’s granddaughter’s Bat Mitzvah. Yes, that’s right.My husband’s cousin’s granddaughter’s Bat Mitzvah. It is still family, mishpacha. For this, you say, you left Elgin? Absolutely. You see, Simon’s cousin, Susan Roth Sherman, believed strongly in showing up at every lifecycle event. She was at our wedding, Sarah’s baby naming, Gabrielle’s Bat Mitzvah. She came to every dance recital, every theater performance. She wrapped little presents for Sarah to open in the car on the long trip to Grand Rapids, one for every hour, after my father had died. She understood the importance of celebrating and marking life transitions. She modeled exuberance. She exuded joy.

We have celebrated with A as well. Her own baby naming, summers on the Cape. We mourned with her at her grandmother’s funeral and we walked with her (still in a stroller) in a walk to honor Susan’s memory at SUNY Albany. I can’t imagine another place to be this weekend than right here with her, celebrating her own life and accomplishments.

So many nice touches to the weekend. A lovely dinner hosted by grandparents. A live Klezmer band. Ellen Corcoran reading “Grant us Peace,” a prayer both her mother and my mother loved. And A’s clear, confident voice, even when she broke out coughing in the middle of her haftarah. Such poise!

Celebrating like this is about continuity. It is about hearing the familiar words come from the next generation. It is about remembering Susan and her mother Louise who A is named for. It is about passing down the importance of ritual, this ritual, this very Torah from one generation to the next. It is about all of us gathering–from all over, so that we can celebrate.

I loved hearing how polite A is. How she always says thank you. And then hearing her immediately say thank you. Her grandmother would have been so proud, on this point alone. I loved hearing how proud Barb and David are of A. And yes, my own Rosh Hashanah sermon about the power of presence was quoted about how A’s mother showed up. That made me cry.

I loved watching her look so much like her mother. I loved watching her sisters look up to her with a mixture of love and awe as they read a poem about being sisters.

I loved using Mishkan Tefilah and for the moment being back in a congregation that is unapologetically a Reform congregation, even with its own diverse population. I loved listening to cousins read Torah, cousins who self identify as Orthodox but who loved being at this service and who like me, showed up. They wouldn’t have been anywhere else. Seven different people read Torah, modeling something for all. It doesn’t have to be the rabbi. Sometimes it is better when it is not.

I loved sitting and watching and quietly davvening. I love being on the bimah. But I also love being able to just enjoy and really davven. Kudos for A, for the rabbi for setting the tone and for the cantorial soloist for allowing me to have my own Shabbat moment of time and space.

I loved singing Lechi Lach, the very song that I sang to myself in the mikveh on Friday afternoon. I loved the music. Old favorites of mine–a different Mi Chamocha than I usually use. Bonia Shur’s majestic Kedusha. Throughout the service, the music sparkled and aided the celebration. It seemed that the fingers on the keyboard danced with joy. I loved hearing the rabbi talk about first fruits–A herself is a first fruit–and gratitude.

Gratitude seems to be the theme of my week. I go back to Elgin filled with gratitude, for my time away, for Simon, for the chance to reconnect with friends, for friends, for celebrating with family. And for Elgin. It is almost time to go home.

But first, we will attend the graduation of my nephew, Brennan, from Swarthmore. We will spend four hours driving from Connecticut to Pennsylvania. Again we will see lots of family. Again we will probably eat too much. Again we will be filled with gratitude. Again we are filled with pride, for both A and Brennan. Again we are choosing to mark a life transition within a Jewish context.

“This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

“Praised are You, Lord our G-d, Ruler of the Universe, who has kept us alive and sustained us and brought us to this festive, joyous, moments.”

Today was a very special day. It was my water day. I need water. In some deep spiritual sense. I have written about water before. Because I keep coming back to it, again and again and again.

So by design, yesterday we drove to Maine. One of my favorite places on earth. I started to tear up (more water) when I crossed into New Hampshire from Massachusetts. Yes. I was driving. Not a lot of tears. They were complicated. I realize how much I miss sitting on “my rock” in Maine, a place I run to to make life decisions. I realize how lucky I am to have a place like that rock. I realize that yes, we were right, the rock is still here.

When I finally turn the corner and can see the ocean for the first time, I let out an audible “oooooooo,” surprising my husband. “You knew it was there. Why are you surprised.” Because after the rain (more water) of yesterday it looked so beautiful, so pristine, so calm. Words fail.

We drove to the lighthouse. We climbed on the rocks (note to self, next year…no skirt!). We managed to get lower to the water than I usually dare to go. We took photographs. How many years of photos do you think we have? We sat quietly. I allowed the feelings to wash over me (more water). We ate lunch including fresh Maine blueberry pie. There is nothing like this.

Then we drove back to Boston. Back to obligations. Back to friends and an important fundraiser for Mayyim Hayyim.

Mayyim Hayyim is the community mikveh in Boston. It is a world class Jewish institution. I know that because last night they said they have had visitors in their 10 years from 47 states and 21 countries. Actually I know that because I have been there. It is an integral part of my life. You know that from reading this blog. How many times have I written about Mayyim Hayyim. You know about the water. You know how the water renews and revitalizes, refreshes and readies. You know how it cleanses and heals. You know how I believe Mayyim Hayyim saved my life. It is all about the water. And the water itself is not magical. It is holy. Set apart, made special. The place is holy too. Set apart, made special. So that each guest feels welcome, comfortable, safe, important.

Mayyim Hayyim is my go to example for a Jewish institution that works. Day in and day out. It welcomes everyone. It knows how to do this. In just 10 years it has hosted over 12,000 immersions and taught 25,000 people. Last night they announced that they had retired the mortgage. In just 10 years. So they are now on healthy financial footing. I am proud of Mayyim Hayyim and all they have accomplished–for me, for the Jewish community as a whole. I am proud of my continuing association with Mayyim Hayyim–even from a distance.

My soul has been fed by the waters–the waters of Maine and the waters of Mayyim Hayyim.

So water is important. But what if you don’t have access to water. Africa has exactly this problem. Sitting in the travel doctor’s office last week, reading Good Housekeeping, I read a story about Mary Jordan, who went to Africa to make a movie and got sick. Really, really sick. She was lucky. She survived. And she is turned her survival into an opportunity to make all aware of the need for access to clean water by painting the water towers of New York: http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/family/inspirational-people/water-tank-project

My friend Kimberly Fogg from high school has another approach. She is the founder of Global Sustainable Partnerships (GSP), an NGO in Tanzania and a 501(c)(3) corporation certified by the Center for Affordable Water and Sanitation Technology (CAWST). She is bringing clean drinking water to Tanzania by transferring knowledge and skills necessary to do. They just picked up a big grant from Bristol Meyers Squibb. www.gspartnerships.org. I am proud of the work Kim does as well.

American Jewish World Service is taking a rights based approach to development and aid. They believe, correctly so that in order to solve poverty, violence against women, girls and the LGBT community has to stop.

As my week in Boston reminds me. People need access to water. It is a right. Wars have been fought over it. Arguments about rights to wells are all too common in developing countries. For me, I need water to restore my soul, my very being.

Today is Yom Yerushalayim. Jerusalem Day. Like so much in Israel this is complex, intense. I don’t remember the Six Day War in 1967. I remember other things that year, like becoming a Brownie and having to do a good deed to turn my Brownie pin right side up.

I am pleased that the pope went to Israel. I hope that Netanyahu and Abbas accept his invitation to come to Rome. If Judaism is about relationships, than creating peace is too. One person at a time. One leader at a time.

I hope that the US recognizes Jerusalem as the capital of Israel. The Knesset building as we know it was dedicated in 1966, before the Six Day War and is in the Givat Ram section of Jerusalem. The government of Israel has met in Jerusalem since 1949. I wish that media outlets like CNN and the Weather Channel would acknowledge Jerusalem as capital on its maps.

I hope that Israel would uphold the Sobel decision last year and let women davven freely at the Wall–the very wall that was rescued, liberated in the Six Day War. I signed the petition for precisely this. Will you? http://womenofthewall.org.il/2014/05/in-honor-of-jerusalem-day-women-of-the-wall-to-prime-minister-netanyahu-let-my-torah-go/

I hope that women are allowed to sit on ALL bus runs in Jerusalem. While I am going to Kenya to help in the fight against violence against women, girls and LGBT community worldwide, I hope that in Israel there is a decrease in violence against women in Jerusalem!

I hope that Israel will fully absorb the Ethiopian refugees. Today is also Ethiopian Memorial Day, so deemed by that very Knesset that sits in Jerusalem precisely because the Ethiopian Jews longed for Jerusalem. 4000 of them died en route. 125,000 Ethiopian Jews have been resettled in Israel but there are many challenges still ahead. They lag behind the main population in education and poverty. Anti-Ethiopian discrimination (read racism!) is still too common. Sofa Landver, the Immigrant Absorption Minister, wrote on Facebook:

“I know that the absorption of Ethiopian immigrants has not yet finished, but even so I see an opportunity to highlight that with the passage of two decades from the start of this immigration, the community has recorded impressive achievements in every aspect of life in the state. On this day I bow my head in memory of those who did not make it here to realize the dream and vision of thousands of years.”

That dream is the same as Theodore Herzl, “If you will it, it is no dream.” In 1991 the Sheba Choir, Ethiopian immigrant children singing under the direction of Shlomo Gronich sang “The Journey to Israel”:

The moonlight stood fast
Our bag of food was lost.
The endless desert
Cries of jackals
And my mother comforts my little brothers:
“A little bit more, a little more
soon we’ll be redeemed
we won’t stop going
to the land of Israel.”

The hardships did not end when they made it to Israel. The Chief Rabbinate refused to recognize their Jewish status and many had to “convert.”

“In the moon the image of my mother looks at me
Mother doesn’t disappear
If only she were by my side
she would be able to convince them
that I am a Jew.”

 

I hope that today, this day of reunification of Jerusalem, Jerusalem Day that we find a way to reunify all of us–Israelis and Palestinians, men and women, African Jews and European Jews. 

This is a vacation to celebrate lifecycle events with family. A Bat Mitzvah in Connecticut. A graduation from Swarthmore. It gives us the opportunity to reconnect with friends in person.

For 30 years I lived in Boston. It never quite felt like home. I always dreamed of being back in Michigan. I remember standing on top of Sleeping Bear Dunes when my father was still alive saying to Simon, “We have to come back.” He, of course, would sing, “I want to go back to Michigan, to dear Ann Arbor town….I wanna go back. I got to go back to Michigan.” We considered ourselves misplaced Midwesterners. We looked for opportunities.

We finally found one. So we packed up a house we had owned for 24 years and moved across the country. Back to our roots. To Chicagoland. To Elgin.

Yesterday we had the opportunity to see seven friends. Larry and Alice. Marylin. Gloria and Alan, Nori and Rags. These are friends that we have been friends with since before Sarah was born. OK–not Marylin. She was Sarah’s Bat Mitzvah teacher making her the “recent” addition in this group. What we have in common with this group is a shared history. It goes “way back” It is deep. Easy. Comfortable. There was good conversation, good food and lots of laughter.

We have stayed in touch with all of these people. Some by phone. Some by Facebook. Some by email. Some because they have “stopped by” Elgin.

Simon and I like living in Elgin, although the Midwest we remember has changed some. I love my job–and having a vacation allows me to appreciate that. We made the right decision to move and we decided on the right position of the three I was offered. That is a good feeling!

But I miss these friends and the ones I will see the rest of this trip.

“Make for yourself a Rav (a teacher); acquire for yourself a friend” (Pirke Avot 1:6)

I am very lucky. I have lots of friends (as this trip clearly points out!) This verse from Pirke Avot has always troubled me. How do you make a teacher? Every year in grade school I would be assigned to a teacher’s class. I had very little choice. I didn’t make a teacher. Maybe I found a teacher. And acquire a friend? We should buy friendship?

Maybe this verse is backwards. Maybe we should acquire a teacher, a tutor, pay them money and make a friend. That makes sense. It goes with the Girl Scout song. “Make new friends and keep the old. One is silver and the other’s gold.” That is exactly what we have done. And this trip points out how lucky we are to live out this verse.

But there is something deeper in this text as written. I learned from Chabad.org, “After we were taught how a person is supposed to perfect his home, something to which he is closest, we are now taught how a person is supposed to perfect his relationship with other people with whom he is close.”

This reminds me of the verse from Lech Lecha, Genesis 12:1. “The Lord said to Abram: lech lecha, Go  towards yourself, out of your country and from your family and from your father’s house.” It is a series of concentric circles of leaving, getting more and more difficult the closer you get to the inner circle, your father’s house, the place of your birth. Chabad continues,  “A Rav and a friend are very close to a person, although they are out of his house, and not as closely attached to him as those who dwell in his house. The Mishnah is in order of closeness: One’s Rav, followed by one’s friend, followed by other people…The word “knei,” acquire, is appropriate for the process of relating to friends, since each one is frequently doing a favor or providing needed resources for the other, and as such their is an element of mutual “acquisition” in their friendship. But the word “acquire” is totally inappropriate to describe how one relates to a Rav, since the student does not “own” the Rav (members of the Board of Directors of Shuls — take note!)”

So now I understand the acquiring friends. It is not buying per se. It is a mutuality. And through the years I have chosen or appointed teachers, thus making them my own.

When I got back to the hotel last night I had a piece of writing to do. I had been asked to write a tribute to my teacher Rabbi Zlotowitz who was honored at this year’s ordination. Rabbi Zlotowitz is a leading scholar of the Reform Movement. He is fluent in seven “dead” languages. He taught my class on pluralism, responsa literature, Isaiah, Job. He became my thesis advisor. When others questioned whether I could be a rabbi, he believed in me. More than that. He went to bat for me. He stuck with me. He cares not only for me and my intellectual pursuits. He cares about my family. He always remembers to ask about how Sarah is doing–with her chronic headaches and with her acting. He believed in her dream too. I called him last week to tell him about my book that is being published this fall. His wife Shirley said, “He is always so proud of his students.” No doubt about it. He has taught me much. Much more than book learning. It was an honor to write about him.

I am learning lots on this trip. I have many teachers. I have many friends. And I have many friends who have become teachers. And I am in exactly the right job, in the right place and the right time. I hope that is true for each of you.

We are almost to Shavuot. This week I am on vacation, celebrating some family simchas (joyous events) and reconnecting with friends. It is hard for me to leave my job. That is true of many Americans. Most Americans never take their full allotment of vacation time or sick time. It is too hard to catch up. It is too disruptive. I am indispensable. Whatever the reason, people don’t take the time.

I was talking with someone this morning about that very fact. In the process I reminded myself (and her) about a delightful book, A Gift from the Sea. One that I have read over and over again. One that I have gifted time and time again. Her introduction is priceless:

“The beach is not the place to work; to read, write or think. I should have remembered that from other years. Too warm, too damp, too soft for any real mental discipline or sharp flights of spirit. One never learns. Hopefully, one carries down the faded straw bag, lumpy with books, clean paper, long over-due unanswered letters, freshly sharpened pencils, lists and good intentions. The books remain unread, the pencils break their points and the pads rest smooth and unblemished as the cloudless sky. No reading, no writing, no thoughts even—at least, not at first. At first, the tired body takes over completely. As on shipboard, one descends into a deck-chair apathy. One is forced against one’s mind, against all tidy resolutions, back into the primeval rhythms of the seashore. Rollers on the beach, wind in the pines, the slow flapping of herons across sand dunes, drown out the hectic rhythms of city and suburb, time tables and schedules. One falls under their spell, relaxes, stretches out prone. One becomes, in fact, like the element on which one lies, flattened by the sea; bare, open, empty as the beach, erased by today’s tides of all yesterday’s scribblings. And then, some morning in the second week, the mind wakes, comes to life again. Not in a city sense—no—but beach-wise. It begins to drift, to play, to turn over in gentle careless rolls like those lazy waves on the beach. One never knows what chance treasures these easy unconscious rollers may toss up, on the smooth white sand of the conscious mind; what perfectly rounded stone, what rare shell from the ocean floor. Perhaps a channelled whelk, a moon shell or even an argonaut. But it must not be sought for or—heaven forbid!—dug for. No, no dredging of the sea bottom here. That would defeat one’s purpose. The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. To dig for treasures shows not only impatience and greed, but lack of faith. Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach—waiting for a gift from the sea.” (Lindbergh, Anne Morrow (2011-08-10). Gift from the Sea (pp. 10-12). Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.)

I did that, precisely that. I brought my laptop with things I want to write, books I want to read on my kindle, books I want to read in hard cover, thank you notes to write.

What I need is time to sleep, just sleep. A chance to dream. A chance to think deeply, to let my mind wander and not to plan. I think the open road fulfills a similar function. Radio on, singing along, mind wandering, the world feels expansive, like the sea. The world is full of possibilities. Anything is possible.

What I need is time with Simon, just us.…We got some of that today hiking in OH. One of the things I love about us is hiking. We have now hiked in 18 states and three foreign countries. Today we even found heart shaped leaves. We were thrilled.

What I need is to see friends and not be distracted by my phone or Facebook. I put an out of office message on but here I am, writing while Simon is sleeping. Mustn’t break the streak of writing since Passover. Checking email is a way to stay connected and a way to hide. It avoids isolation–and it can be isolating.

What I need is to see the water. And the sky. To not hurry. To find that gift from the sea, or the mountain. Tonight, however, I am racing to Massachusetts so I can see friends before they leave on vacation.

Maybe tomorrow. What gift will I find from the sea? There is always something.