The Mountains, the Metropolis

There’s a slowness, a serenity, a full kind of emptiness, that is welcome — three hours and a world away from New York City. In place of throngs of pedestrians, accordion city buses, yellow cabs honking and bicycles whizzing by, there are horses swishing tails, tractor wheels slowly turning, silos standing sentinel, three in a row. Rolling hills, landscapes in every shade of green, trees dotting the distant curves and crabapples swinging in the breeze, close enough to touch.

A handful of covered bridges, their wood worn, abandoned barns and farmhouses, weathered and overtaken by ivy and lichen and time. As the 4x4 navigates rutted roads, there’s no need to turn on the stereo — sounds sweep in through the open windows. Wind rustles through leaves like a soft rainfall. Crickets and birds chirp, tires crunch on gravel, brooks gurgle on the side of the road.

Hiking up mountains, hopping over tangled tree limbs and scrambling up stones, a rattlesnake’s warning echoes among the branches. You can glimpse dragonfly wings shimmering in sunlight, chipmunks darting to catch crumbs inches from your feet. The variety of animals that inhabits Manhattan — pigeons on eaves, crossing streets, swooping right past your ears; dogs of every breed: poodles with ears dyed pink and perpetually pouting pugs and panting scott terriers; rats scampering among sewers, squirrels and robins in Central Park’s lawns — gives way to an alphabet of animals: blue herons and black bears, chickens and cows, hawks and horses, wild turkeys and white-tailed deer. A coyote and a basset hound form a duet, lonely howls aimed at the rising full moon: a yellow orb so bright that it is nature’s light pollution, allowing for a glimpse of just a fraction of the countless stars that smatter the sky.

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The experience of time savored in nature, soaking in the sensations that are foreign in dense urban life — slippery stones beneath barefeet in a cold watering hole; a fire pit crackling in an open field, roasting salmon with maple syrup from the local farm; breathing in mountain air crisp and clean, a refreshing ten degrees cooler than summer back home — is wholesome, nourishing, in a way that fuels the body, mind, soul. Hands resting on bark, gnarled and storied, head tilted heavenward, expression awestruck. A spirituality that descends, a rootedness, that you can tuck in your pocket and reach for as you lay your head upon your pillow back home, where lit squares, a grid of pale blue and amber, stand in for stars and the trundling carts drown out the crickets.

In one palm, you preserve the peacefulness, the untouched beauty of nature, the forceful rush of waterfalls over cliffs, and in the other, the symphony, the busyness and buoyancy, the gush of people perpetually streaming across sidewalks, clamoring onto subway cars, turning through glass and brass revolving doors — always a dream to pursue, forward motion — a path to chart, a future, a promise, a forever endeavor.

The above gallery includes images I’ve taken in Upstate New York near the Catskill Mountains, side by side with photos of New York City.

poetry is

poetry is
the form and the subject
microcosms of life preserved —
pressed flowers between leaves of a book
details distinct as folds between petals,
like the white ones i saw with my daughter today,
paper thin near sheer like garlic peels, though scentless,
and almost still in the summer day, the motionless interim before, between,
the rain and wind. seconds of pause,
calm.

poetry is
the hurting, hurting, healing
words unsaid for years until,
over a freshly dug grave, one is brave
enough
to step forth
begin again, tentative, and then,
a bridge is built, slat by slat, shaky, with time more
sturdy, secure, as siblings and children make up for
lost time,
initial space shared, foreign, becoming
hands clasped and a full embrace and a seen and known, beloved face.

poetry
new and old juxtaposed
on new york city roads
limestone, brick, carvings, fire escapes,
alongside gleaming glass metal glistening, only natural thing about it — that it scrapes
the sky, and sometimes, beneath
morning fog it lies.

poetry
contradictions:
seamless and bursting at the seams;
broken, spilling, like pomegranate seeds,
and wholeness, a cell, a room that feeds its occupants, serves their needs

a forest for night terrors,
treetop for dreams
a galaxy, expansive,
and a dandelion swaying in the breeze

lines from a child’s lips — “the city’s lights our stars”
hand ruffling hair, pinching cheeks,
the quiet, the little, soft, sweet

life brutal, grueling, salty, sweat, defeat

so —

the good held up to light, a treat, to savor, seek,
to speak about and into being,
to wish it into truth with prayer and
poetry.

first love affair

There is something beautiful about being in love — it is not limited to a person.

There is something I love, have loved for as long as I can remember.

I seek it out everywhere I go, listen for it, talk about it.

Think about it, dream about it.

Love its texture, colors. The way it gets worn with time and knowledge.

The way it can be a lifeline. An escape. A consolation.

My oldest, and youngest, love affair — books.

In a new city, I explore the library, bookstores.

At home, books are displayed, enjoyed, revisited. Lent out. Hands changed and lives changed.

Reading on the subway, sneaking a book into class, crossing the street with a novel in hand. Reading anywhere I can (at least, before my hands were full with kids; now children’s books are my bread).

Perhaps because this is how I was bred.

In the changing landscape of my childhood, bookshelves were a constant fixture. Sturdy, familiar. Tangible.

Playing word games, always — my siblings and parents stringing stories together with each other’s words, inventing and guessing definitions, looking for all the letters of the alphabet on road trips.

We had books about books. Best children’s books. The origin of phrases. Visual encyclopedias. About the letterforms themselves — calligraphy and text.

There is so much beauty in the written word — the way the same set of letters can be rearranged in infinite ways to tell a unique story. The same word in a different context delivering opposing messages, relaying a different history, or vision of the future.

The way words can unite (divide), collide, elegant in a line of poetry, formidable in a block of prose, or paired with a melody — and forget about it. The words come alive, dancing in your ears, echoing your heart.

Letters, words, books.

The universe’s timeless love letter, overflowing treasure, to us.

Below, a few of my favorite bookstores in NYC.

twofold betrayal

It is a tangled, torturous thing, to be betrayed by something you love.

A person, a place, a philosophy.

As if the betrayal itself is not bad enough — the sucker punch, truth to dust, smiles to sneers and smattered veneers — the force of it doubles you over when coupled with knowing the ill will, lies spilled, came from a world you believed safe. That your primitive self deemed free of predators and open pits, that you saw as a space where you could exhale, eyes closed, and be. As you are, flaws and fierceness and follies and future and all, wrapped up within you and around you, free to enter and exit without fear of what may lurk in the murky shadows, a lion on the verge of pouncing —

and then —

the veil falls.

Stupid, you mutter to yourself. How could I let my guard down? I should have expected it.

Betrayal, woven so deeply into the universe’s fabric — serpent to sapien: desire; man to his maker: hubris; brother to brother: envy of another, and so it continues the trail of misdeeds and greed; the beads of sweat, bitten lips letting out little white lies and gaping black holes of alibis, so far beyond the realm of absurd that somehow they’re believed, word for twisted word.

It shouldn’t catch us by surprise, be followed with regret, and yet, we forget, we fervently deny the rotten intentions when the apple of the eye is targeted by witch hunts and libels and poison, slogans, unstories, sinister, broken.

Heart cracked open.

Exposed to the cold; reality and bitterness blowing in with the draft, ripped life raft, roaring loud as the wind, you should not have let them in and how can you let them win and how can people change on the tiniest of whims — what was the trigger — ego bruised? bad news? Or just a ruse, was it there all along and the signs were ignored till they gathered and lumped under rugs and floorboards, banging like a stick thumping ceilings, let me out, till the ugly truth rears its head and shouts shouts shouts.

Too much doubt, no clout. Breath bated, hooked and baited like trout. Words tumble out their mouth — filthy water from a spout and you thrashed about as they snuffed the lights out, a bag over your head, but you crawled and you climbed, and digested what they projected, infected; but then exercised your agency and exorcised it out — you swear never again will you allow it, unprotected. You’ll deflect it and reject it, the manipulative lines and you’ll rise above and smile — you can’t bring me down this time.

integration

god harnessed the messy nothing, tamed it,
made the light, the dark, and named it,
not good versus bad —
this | that.

street stripes, zebras, ebony and ivory,
distinction, differentiation, side by side in harmony.

my broken beliefs bre-
ak open:
a kintsukuroi bowl,
            gaping holes filled,

cracks rivered through with gold.

This poem and art piece was inspired by the Japanese art form of kintsugi, or kintsukuroi, in which broken bowls and dishes are mended with lacquer and gold dust. It is a way of salvaging and making beautiful what is broken both in a literal and metaphorical sense, which I find empowering and comforting. The art piece above was created using a wooden salad bowl that had cracked and was no longer usable; instead of tossing it out, I spray painted it black, then added more coats of black paint, and then drips of gold and melted wax along the edges.

To Be a Jew

For much of my life, my Jewish identity has felt… complicated. A family heirloom I appreciate, sometimes cherishing, sometimes burdened by, the value and responsibility it holds. Sacred and heavy, like the parchment and its intricate case that rest in the ark before me.

This week, for the first time since my earliest childhood memories, being Jewish feels very straightforward. Inextricably intertwined from my belonging in this world. The most important fact of my existence and the precursor to all that follows.

In the last ten days, the world has witnessed firsthand, physically or virtually — either way all too vividly — pure brutality, bloodshed, and evil. The monochrome grainy photos of just under a century ago — human beings stripped of their dignity, security, status, and right to live, solely because Jewish blood pulsed through their veins  — jump to life, visceral, in a sickening flashback to the past that was hoped to be long buried alongside the millions of our brothers and sisters torn from our history pages. 

To be Jewish is to be hunted, haunted, a wanted prisoner, even by one’s own neighbor, or cousin, or perfect stranger. To write and recite psalms in a cave, under cover of night. To keep our commandments in secret or in plain sight: dunking in holy water, braiding loaves of bread, basking in candlelight. 

To be Jewish is to be scapegoated, framed, maimed. Criticized, minimized,  ostracized, dehumanized. To be a largely unprotected underdog, despite standing up for other minorities’ rights. To work as hard and as dedicated as others, become successful, and somehow still get the short end of the stick, envied or distrusted. 

To be Jewish is to pack a bag and bolt at a moment’s notice, to kiss memories and relatives goodbye, to flee one’s homeland and run to our Homeland, while still feeling that nowhere is truly safe. Not the fields, not one’s bed. Not in a cage or dumpster or car, above or underground.

To be Jewish is to be a moving target. 

And yet.

And yet, we are an ancient people, remarkably still alive despite those who rise to destroy us in every generation, each time with revolutionized weapons and refashioned propaganda. They plot to kill us, and they succeed, and they fail, and we fast, and we feast, forever rotating between mourning and festive clothes.

We are perpetually on the run, literally or figuratively — and yet, many of us born Jewish still cling to our faith despite our suffering, and some of us born not Jewish elect to become one of us, flaws and disclaimers and all, souls thirsting for knowledge of God, of His book, His people. 

We are a nation that excels.

We excel at being exiled and at being redeemed. Being loved and hated. 

We are paralleled by none in our grit, our stubbornness, our will to fight and to live. To stand up for what’s right. To hold faith, conjuring it out of seemingly thin air, steady like a defiant fire in a damp and endless winter night, thick with rage and despair.

We are a people proud of our heritage and customs, strange and beautiful both. 

We are passionate, and introspective, and sharp, and layered.

To be Jewish is to be a skilled arguer, a nuanced writer, a patient reader. Armed with charm and wit, stories and songs thousands of years old, bristling with pain and rippling with hope, shimmering like a national memory of our forefathers and mothers, crystal clear in our minds as though experienced by our own bodies, although our tongues utter new words; our modern worlds mostly foreign yet threaded with the same core themes of the tales we’ve heard every day since first grade. Sibling rivalry, power struggles, battles for justice, enemies real and imagined, angels human and divine. Narratives that bring tears of ecstatic joy and of unfathomable loss to one’s eyes.

To be a Jew is to dream of receiving the Torah and wake with it in our hands. To revere it and reject it, to absorb its lines and their subtext, to ignore its whispered blessings and warnings.

To be a Jew is to hold disbelief and surety simultaneously, to doubt and to know, to wonder and to wander. To get lost, get caught up in our differences, to remember, and to forget.

We forget, sometimes, who we were, who we are, what led us to this moment — the sacrifices and miracles, national and personal, that transpired, against all odds, for us to arrive at this threshold where we now tremble.

We speak of Mashiach with a faint fairy tale tinge of legends and lullabies, yearning for a future we can’t quite picture, unsure what it will require and how it will unfold and when it will come. 

In our storied hands, we hold: the flame, the land, the water, the whirlwind. The roaring silence and the deafening sounds.

We trudge through our tired days, weary, worried. Huddled close with some of our brothers, our backs turned to some of the others. In our fierce desire to maintain our identity, our hardwired instinct for survival, we grip so tightly onto how our religion and heritage resonate with us, to the extent that sometimes, through the gaps we push away those who differ: our very own brothers and sisters. 

At times this rejection is harmless, unfelt, its scale small and irrelevant. At others, our opposing views — political, spiritual, existential — drive a wedge deeper between us, so that conversation is impossible, the crevice between us gaping to a widening abyss, each of us the twenty-first century Yosef in the pit, or those who pushed him in, or both.

But: to be Jewish is to unite.

To fight discordance with solidarity. 

In the face of cruelty, we spread kindness. We offer a hint of humor and a whole lot of food, eager to help — giving with our hearts, our minds, our skills and our time. We open our doors wide, sitting together under one tent, and remember precisely what we have forgotten: we are family.

In the throes of grief, we band together, hand in hand, and empathize and eulogize and harmonize and rise, rise, up we rise. We survive and celebrate life even as the world around us crumbles, because how can we give up now, and what choice do we have?

In the turbulence of uncertainty we turn to the only thing we are certain of: God. 

We wrap black leather around our arms and colorful scarves upon our heads, and close our burning eyes and let words tumble from our lips with urgency. 

We hold loves ones close and raise eyes heavenward, blow dust from our abandoned prayer books, and pray for sisters and brothers by blood and by name and by story. 

We ask, and apologize, and change, and chant. Like children lost, we cry, and we come home.

To be a Jew is to be resilient, to be soulful, varied and vibrant, shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped and held high. 

To be a Jew is the greatest responsibility and privilege a soul could hold. 

To be one nation, alive: am Yisrael chai.

Originally published on Times of Israel blogs.