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All I Want is for Them to be Safe. Is it Possible?

3/26/2017

Dreaming of Home

We want so much to be in
     that place
where we are respected
   and cherished,
protected, acknowledged,
nurtured, encouraged,
heard.

And seen, seen
in all our loveliness,
in all our fragile strength.

And safe, safe in all our
   trembling
vulnerability. Where we
   are known
and safe, safe and known --
is it possible?
Merle Feld

  *

So here’s what I’m thinking.

I’ll buy a remote island
(you’d be surprised how many remote islands are for sale)
and I’ll pack up my husband,
our son and daughters and their spouses,
their partners,
along with our grandsons and granddaughters
and their significant others
and we’ll all move to that remote island
where nothing scary can find us
and there we’ll be safe.
Of course, living so close to the water
we’d have to remain alert for riptides and tsunamis,
sharks, too,
though the odds of being eaten by a shark
are roughly 1 in 264 million
so maybe I can cross that particular worry off my list.
   Yes. We’ll move to the island and there we will be safe.

Or instead of the island,
it might be more effective to lock my family in their houses.
But first, I’ll hide all sharp objects
and toss out packaged or canned food
with expired use-by dates.
I’ll sweep bird’s nests from chimneys,
install new batteries in carbon monoxide detectors,
fill fire extinguishers,
put pain meds on the highest shelves
and make sure everyone knows the Heimlich Maneuver
which, over the years, has saved an estimated 50,000 lives in the U.S.
so maybe I can cross choking-on-a-chicken-bone off my worry list, too.
Finally, I’ll hide all car keys,
remove spark plugs from motorcycles,
and de-activate garage door openers.
   Yes. if they never leave their houses, my family will be safe

Bull shit.

Ah, my babies.
You're on a journey.
And even if I cocoon you in layers of bubble wrap
like Bubbie’s china,
I know your fragile hearts will be broken along the way,
your very souls will not be protected from harm.
If I cradle you in soft straw like Zayda’s etrog,
you will still be bruised.

So, here’s what I’m thinking.

We will not move to a remote island
or lock ourselves in our houses.
We will continue this journey together.
You, guided by maps totally unfamiliar to me.
Me, wearing amulets and red strings,
listening for sirens,
afraid the phone will ring,
praying you be saved from hidden snares,
that angels carry you in their palms,
wanting nothing more than for you to remain safe.

Is it possible?

   copyright 2017 Ozzie Nogg

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Outside. Inside. The. Box.

3/20/2017

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We’ve all heard the advice. When you want to find a novel solution to a problem, Think. Outside. The. Box.
I have no idea who came up with the phrase, but its popularity grew from the nine-dot puzzle which challenges people to connect three rows of three dots each, using only four straight lines, without lifting the pencil from the paper.

That’s the pickle I find myself in each time I sit down to write this blog. How to connect the dots. How to express my scatter-shot thoughts creatively and tease the muse into action when she’d rather snooze.

For me, trying to think outside the box, week after week, gets stressful.
So today, I take solace - and inspiration - from folks who think inside the box.

1. Each Tuesday, in Rotorua, New Zealand, a group of 120 retired friends — the D.I.Y. Kiwi Coffin Club — meets in a makeshift workshop to build coffins. The meetings are held against background noises — whirring power tools, the hammering of nails, the soft swish of paint brushes. Dues are $7 a year. Members range in age from mid-70s to ninety-four. The club dubbed their coffins Fine and Affordable Underground Furniture. On a recent Tuesday, Coffin Club President Roger Terry welcomed new members, Eleanor Mahony and Jean Meux-Hunter. The following exchange is part of the minutes of that meeting:

Eleanor Mahony: So, after I make my coffin, what do I do with it until it’s, like, you know, needed?
     Grace Terry (Roger Terry’s wife): Do whatever floats your boat. Put book shelves inside it. Use it to store wine.
     Jean Meux-Hunter: I have a shoe and handbag fetish so is it okay if I decorate my coffin with pictures of shoes and handbags?
     Unidentified member: Bloody good idea.
     Ruth Whateley: I’m getting measured up today. When I’ve finished my coffin I think I’ll cover it with photos of my dogs.
     Grace Terry: Good on you, Ruth. My coffin is painted mauve and decorated with deep purple hydrangea blooms and it’s sitting right in our front parlor, next to Roger’s recliner, waiting to be lined.
     Roger Terry: I’ve seen people come alive making their own coffins. We have a heap of fun, preparing for the inevitable. If you don’t have humour, then you may as well nail the coffin lid down now.

2. When it comes to thinking inside the box, the D.I.Y. Kiwi Coffin Club is not unique. Every year, Tokyo hosts the Shukatsu Festival. Shukatsu means preparing for one’s end, and the event annually attracts 5,000 people. During this try-before-you-die gala, participants choose their funeral outfit, put it on, and lie down in a flower-filled casket. Should you have a yen for a more soulful experience, an attendant applies deathly pallor make-up, covers you with white blankets, and takes your picture. “That way,” say the festival organizers, “people can see exactly what they’ll look like at their funeral.” Want the attendant to close the lid of the coffin while you’re inside? Ask, and you got it.

3. To the D.I.Y. Kiwi Coffin Club and the Shukatsu Festival, let’s add a service offered by a clinic in Shenyang, China, where over 1,000 patients have so far been ‘reborn’ by pretending they’re dead. Tang Yulong, a consultant at the clinic, says, “People who suffer from psychological problems can be helped by simulating death. We take them into a ‘death experience room’ where they write down their last words and crawl into a coffin. After five minutes of serene time, the sound of a crying baby breaks the silence, a consultant opens the coffin and with this rebirth people get a new outlook on life.”

4. Going one step further, Professor Qiu Daneng of Taiwan’s Rende Medical College, buries his students alive in coffins in the floor of his classroom - for at least 10 minutes - to make them appreciate every second of their lives. And, hopefully, treat their future patients with more empathy.

5. Finally. We add Ukraine, where coffin-maker Stepan Piryanyk offers people the chance to lie down in one of his comfortable coffins in order to get used to the afterlife. “When you lay in the box,” Piryanyk says, “it feels just like a bed. It’s the same sheets, the same pillow. After a hard day’s work you can come in and just relax for fifteen minutes. It’s great.”

6. I wanted to include the story of Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai who faked his own death and had his students schlepp him in a coffin all the way from besieged Jerusalem to General Vespasian’s tent, but that was waaaaay too many dots to connect.
Maybe another time.

So this, my friends, is what happens when I think inside the box.
Truth be told, these days I think inside the box a lot.
May sound grim, but don’t worry.
I’m well aware of time passing,
but not ready to stand on a street corner with a sign that reads:

The. End. Is. Near.

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On Building Tabernacles, with a Small Personal Story Plus a Nod to Purim . . .

3/12/2017

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Sonnet 1: Exodus, chapter 25-27

Then God decreed: Now make for Me a home
where I, among the Israelites, will dwell.
And bring My tabernacle when you roam
so I may join you on the path as well.

Each tribe brought offerings as they were told.
Fine jewels, the hair of goats and purple thread.
They built God’s house with silver, bronze and gold.
Acacia wood and skin of rams dyed red.

But why must space for God be so ornate?
May I not say Sh'ma among the trees?
May I not worship as I wash a plate
or dance my Hallelujah by the seas?

We build God’s tabernacles at great cost.
Yet pay no heed when holiness is lost.

*

A Story

My father’s first pulpit was in Kurkliai, an off-the beaten-path shtetl in Lithuania. The year was 1919, and the little wooden shul - with its small tower, peaked roof and stairs that led to the women’s gallery - resembled 18th century Polish wooden synagogues, none of which remain. The modest sanctuary served the few Jews who lived in Kurkliai. Poor villagers lacking gold, silver, bronze or onyx stones with which to grace their house of prayer. The scraps of blue, purple and scarlet linen in the Kurkliai shul - tallis bags, Torah covers, a curtain for the Ark - were lovingly woven by Basha Freydeh, the wife of Yudel the tailor, and clumsily embroidered by their daughter, Mereleh, who was, according to my Poppa, by then a spinster without charm or skill.

Eligible suitors did not visit remote Kurkliai, and my Poppa, the rabbi, was the only single man for miles around. The tailor and his wife often invited him to their home for Sabbath meals, where Mereleh spilled Kiddush wine, served challah, dry and burnt. By candlelight, my Poppa read the message in the spinster’s glance. You are my only chance, come lay with me. Wisely, he packed his bag and escaped temptation before the village yentas could wag their tongues.

*

Sonnet 2: Duluth 1937

She was a widow with a new-born child.
His wife had died. He had two sons to raise.
She was a beauty, obstinate and wild
who measured grief in cubits, set ablaze.

He wooed her with the passion of his youth.
He offered Song of Songs and David’s psalms.
Did she return his love? I have no proof.
’Twas his two boys who soothed her breast like balm.

But who can say where we will find our bliss?
We build our houses, praying they will last.
The widower, who craved a morning kiss.
The widow, sleeping, dwelling in the past.

Both needed what the other could not give.
They wore their masks not to deceive, but live.


     copyright 2017 Ozzie Nogg

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Ozzie Nogg

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