I Stole Something from A Simple Jew.... Umm, I Mean I Borrowed It.

"...record your inner life in a journal. This will not be something you do to earn immortal fame as an author, but rather engrave your soul-portrait on paper. Write down all your inner struggles, your setbacks and successes, and grant them eternal life. This way your very essence, the personality of your soul, your spiritual attainments, your life's inner treasures, will live on forever in the lives of your spiritual heirs as generations to come and go."

(Piaceszna Rebbe)

Asking forgiveness of fellow blogger A Simple Jew, http://asimplejew.blogspot.com I admit that I stole this posting of his from October 10, 2004. I'm like a comedian who's run out of quality material and has to recycle jokes of yesteryear.

But A Simple Jew knows the right things to say at the right time, the right quotations to cite to bring an awareness to his readers. Even if one of his posts doesn't offer anything more than a word of wisdom from a late, great rebbe, that post is a treasure and food for thought.

This quote from the Piaceszna Rebbe hits home for me as a blogger and as someone who kept a journal for years. My words are markers for my life, recreating or renewing events -- both trivial and major -- for me and any readers with the [good] fortune to read my words.

As the quote says, "...engrave your soul-portrait on paper." Or in this modern-day world, engrave it on a screen, don't forget to hit SAVE and then FILE. And remember, "a picture is worth a thousand words..."

B-A-T-H-Y-S-C-A-P-H-E***

Interesting how the human mind works, and more interesting is memory.

I am 43. When I was 12 and in grade 7 (okay, to you Americans, 7th grade), we would have spelling bees from time to time if we finished our work and had about 10 minutes till the bell would ring for dismissal. We lined up along the blackboard and the teacher gave us words -- some easy, some difficult -- randomly. Either the bell would ring first, or we'd declare a champion speller, based on who was left standing.

I was a good speller, but I don't recall being champion. However, I do recall that the word bathyscaphe was given by the teacher -- to me? Perhaps. I can't recall that, either. But since that day in 1973, when I heard the spelling of the word, I've retained it. I quickly spell it aloud from time to time and recall this story to family and friends. Or I do it in a singsong manner, or make a clapping game with the word for my young daughter.

I may have remembered the spelling of the word all these years, but I've never had reason to use it in a sentence. Go figure....

Yes, memory is a strange and often wonderful thing. A perfect example that leaves me wondering about memory continually is my father's memory for his father's yahrzeit. Now you might think, "Of course her father would know and commemorate a parent's yahrzeit." But my father was six years old when his father passed away (my father's littlest sister was born two months after her father passed away!). That was over 75 years ago! There were harsh living conditions, a world war, dealing with huge and horrific losses, an uprooting of a life, and a replanting of a life and resulting fruit in subsequent years. So many trials and tribulations...illnesses that affected the brain: brain tumor, stroke...and yet the yahrzeit date stayed with this man all these years.

I think it's a blessing in disguise -- a kavod for the grandfather I never knew, the father that my father barely knew. We should all be blessed with such a memory...to do the right things in life.


***Bathyscaphe (also bathyscaph) -- n. : a navigable submersible for deep-sea exploration having a spherical watertight cabin attached to its underside.

A Working Mother's Woes

Woe is me...I'm a working mom. Okay, so I bring home a few shekels, and I help pay for the mortgage, the second car, the insurance, the household bills, the day care, the schooling, the day camp, the extra-curricular lessons, shul membership, the dog food, the--

Oh wait, I said I bring home a few shekels, and I help pay for... the dog food. Yup, that's about it. So why am I out there, rushing to and from work, leaving my husband to deal with chauffeuring and meal preps and homework till I get home. I'm not the main breadwinner in this family by any means, but I do help out a bit.

Recently hubby and I looked at my checkbook to see if there was a pattern to my spending habits -- oh, ya, the pattern is THE KIDS. I pay for swimming, for hockey, for chess, for other mind-expanding, brain-enlightening courses they pursue, for school expenses (of course, those are on top of tuition, on top of school uniforms, on top of supply lists) such as trips and food programs and Scholastic book orders.

Yes, we spend on THE KIDS, but the rewards are plentiful. My kids will swim/skate up to me, and in a loud and clear voice one of them will ask me to join him in a game of chess. I'll refuse, reminding him that it is in fact I who needs to take chess lessons, and tell him to play with his father, while I suggest his sister read the Scholastic book I ordered. In the meantime, I'll do the laundry and wash my daughter's school jumper and her brother's zippered school logo jacket.

And littlest child, not yet in school, will look at me, and with pleading eyes ask, "Can I have a brownie?" "Sure," I say. After all, it's only a brownie, and not a cataloged list of Scholastic books he wants me to buy for him, or an after-school program he wants to take, or a knapsack he insists on having because it's the latest schoolyard look.

Thank G-d for small blessings...

Online with Hashem

I've discovered blogs in which people are actually writing letters to Hashem. Blogosphere mail to the Almighty! Is this what we call progress?

Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret is a well-known Judy Blume novel; I'm pretty sure that nearly every pubescent/adolescent girl has checked this book out of her library, or bought it via a Scholastic Books order. And I can't help but think of that book title when I read peoples' online pleas to Hashem or praise for Hashem.

For me, anyway, any words I have for Hashem are private and are generally meant to stay that way. Yes, I'll daven in a kehilla, but I move my lips quietly when I say the prayers; I'll make the brachot over the Shabbos candles and might say the words aloud, but my added prayers for family members and friends are said quietly or silently, using my mind to transport my words high above.

Some of my early journals have written pleas to Hashem or thanks to him embedded within their entries, but again, these are private, for my eyes only.

That's why I can't help but think that some of these people who are outrightly praying online are in some way desecrating the purer ways of communicating to Hashem. I'm sure they are engrossed in regular davening and learning, but perhaps they think that any means possible will get their prayers answered faster?

But the question they really need to be asking is: How often does Hashem check his e-mail?

(I hope by writing this entry that I'm not doing any major desecrating....)

With a Hop, Skip and a Jump

If some of you tune in once in a while or regularly -- even better! -- to this blog, you'll note once again the change in design. Every now and again, I look at my site and see that something screwed up in the display -- the fave sites are missing or got misplaced down to the netherworld of the screen's page, posts or comments are getting cut off, etc. I don't know how it happens, but I guess it's probably an indication that I'm spending too much time on this site, and losing out on valuable items as a result.

Even if my Pearlies of Wisdom page doesn't display my list of faves, I have an organized column on my computer both at home and at work that I refer to so that I can check in to see how some other bloggers are doing.

Because I am still relatively new to the world of blogs and blogging -- I started blogging in December 2004 -- I have to think back to how I even accumulated a list of faves.

My stepping stone was back in October 2004 when I received a mailing about newly published Jewish books and a blurb about their authors. The book that caught my eye on the list was screenwriter Robert Avrech's The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden (mentioned several times on this blog). I googled Robert's name and discovered his blog, then became hooked on reading it. I began to check out some of his faves, among them A Simple Jew and Five Years Later. And also got hooked. Then I looked at the faves on A Simple Jew and linked on to those...and got hooked to several. And when I linked on to those, I cross-linked to others.

Now each time I go online to read others' blogs, I move through the blogosphere with a hop, skip and a jump. Sometimes I can't even remember how I arrived at a particular blog, what circuitous route I took to get there. But I'm glad I'm there...

And I'm equally glad you're here, that you found your way to Pearlies of Wisdom.

HAPPINESS

In his book Happiness: Formulas, Stories & Insights, Rabbi Zelig Pliskin offers an exercise in which the ideas are conducive for accessing happiness-producing states.

Try to fill in some of these:

*I am grateful for....
*I talk and act joyously when...
*One of the greatest people I ever met was...
*The nicest thing anyone ever said to me is...
*I will increase...
*The people who add to my happiness are...
*I felt a sense of accomplishment when...
*What makes me smile is...
*What I most appreciate about my father is...
*What I most appreciate about my mother is...
*What I most appreciate about my brother/sister is...
*I feel fortunate that...
*I appreciate...

Even if you think you are not so happy at the moment, upon doing this exercise and reviewing your ever-changing answers, you will realize that you have much to be thankful for and you appreciate the small things in life that you might otherwise take for granted.

Wishing you much happiness...

Screenwriter Makes His Seraphic Vision a Reality [something to kvell about]

Please refer to www.seraphicpress.com for more insights...

************************

The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden, by Robert J. Avrech, Seraphic Press.

Robert J. Avrech’s primary experience has been as a screenwriter. With Brian DePalma, he wrote the screenplay for the 1984 thriller Body Double, and he was the screenwriter for the 1992 film, A Stranger Among Us, an official selection of the Cannes Film Festival. His moving 1999 adaptation of author Jane Yolen’s The Devil’s Arithmetic garnered him an Emmy Award.

Avrech recently undertook a new venture – to write a novel for young adults that would reflect the values of an observant Jew.

His guiding light was his son, Ariel Chaim, a yeshiva student, gentle, deeply religious, devoted to his parents, his younger sisters and his studies. Ariel also loved both classic and modern literature, but was concerned about the values found in contemporary young adult literature, which he felt reflected the point of view of cynical authors and editors determined to impose their negative viewpoint on others.

He suggested that his father “start a publishing company, publish fiction that is of the highest quality, yet also suitable for kids who hold Torah values.”

At age 14, Ariel was diagnosed with a brain tumour. His family rallied around him as he underwent intensive chemotherapy and radiation treatments, transfusions and surgery.

For the eight years that he was in and out of hospital, family, faith and friendships sustained him in his fight to survive. He continued to study and was valedictorian of his graduating class at Los Angeles’ Yeshiva Gedolah. Four years later, however, in fall 2002, Ariel had difficulty breathing. The prognosis was that the chemotherapy for his tumour had left his lungs scarred. He was suffering from pulmonary fibrosis and needed a lung transplant.

By this time, Avrech had begun writing a Jewish historical novel, The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden. His goal was to share his “love of Judaism, Jewish ritual and Jewish history with as many people as possible.” He wanted to be a positive influence, telling a great story that also embraced Orthodox Jewish ideals.

The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden is the coming-of-age story of the unlikely friendship between Ariel, “The Hebrew Kid,” and Lozen, an Apache warrior girl and younger sister of Victorio, who was perhaps the greatest Apache chief in the Old West. Ariel, an intelligent, serious and spunky boy of almost bar mitzvah age, is determined to celebrate this important ceremony.

He becomes friends with Lozen, as he and his observant Jewish family make their way across the Arizona Territory after the Civil War, seeking a life free of oppression, a place where they can practise their religion and livelihood.

Through their adventures and intriguing friendship, Ariel and Lozen learn about the similarities and the differences in their cultures.

The story’s colourful characters include Papa, Mama, sister Rebecca, Victorio, U.S. cavalry, scalp hunters, settlers and the renowned Doc Holliday, all travelling westward to find a new beginning. With its page-turning suspense, adventure, humour, historical and religious references, and its glossary of Yiddish and Hebrew terms, The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden is a welcome and wonderful book for anyone age nine to 120. It is a literary treasure for families to read and reread.

Avrech spent two years researching Apache life, the westward expansion and letters and journals of Jews who made the migration to the west. He travelled to Arizona, where the story takes place, to get a feel for the land and to talk to Apache tribe members.

While Ariel remained hospitalized or homebound, Avrech read him the manuscript, discussing story lines, characterization, halachic accuracies. He says his son was “a fine literary critic, and after he read a chapter, it was not unusual for Ariel to offer gentle but cogent criticism that would send me back to my pages for numerous rewrites.

“My years as a screenwriter have taught me some basic lessons in telling a good story, getting to the heart of the scene quickly and resolving characters and situations.”

Avrech completed seven drafts of the book, “each one better than the next,” with further input from family, friends, rabbis, writers and editors.

Unfortunately, Ariel did not receive the lung transplant he and his family were desperately hoping for, and in July 2003, he died at age 22. Avrech and his wife, Karen, decided to establish Seraphic Press in Ariel’s memory. Seraphim, God’s first order of angels, are often mentioned in the Torah. Ariel’s pious nature was recognized early by his family, friends and community, making Seraphic Press a befitting name.

The outstanding Seraphic Press design team includes Obadinah Heavner, illustrator; Robert Lanphear, book designer; and Iskra, calligrapher. Jonathan David Publishers, Inc. has been signed on as exclusive distributor for The Hebrew Kid and upcoming Seraphic Press books whose release dates will coincide with National Jewish Book Month.

The publishing list includes more titles in The Hebrew Kid series – Avrech is currently working on The Hebrew Kid and Buffalo Bill, a story about bringing a Torah to Tombstone, Ariz. The Shidduch Diaries, designated as “chick lit for the observant,” is author Michael Levin’s wildly entertaining look at the insular Jewish dating scene. Maccabee and Me, another Avrech title, features a time-travel story about a high school student who learns to appreciate his Judaism when he is cast back into the world of Judah the Maccabee.

The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden, recently released, received wonderful reviews. In November 2004, Avrech was invited to read and sign copies of his book at the largest Jewish children’s book fair in Los Angeles. But he said then: “HaShem has a wicked curveball. The bookfest takes place 100 yards from Ariel’s kever [grave]. Understand, this is The Hebrew Kid’s very first public appearance.”

In May 2004, Avrech started a blog, an online journal – Seraphic Secret, www.seraphicpress.com – his space to remember his only son, Ariel.

Robert J. Avrech translated his son’s vision into the Avrech family’s vision, Seraphic Press, whose motto is “belief in books.”

The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden is available at www.amazon.com and at www.barnesandnoble.com, in Toronto at Negev Books and at Israel’s Books and Gifts, and in Montreal at Rodal’s and Kotel Books.

Letter by Letter

Gotta say that I love picking titles -- hopefully catchy ones, at that! -- for this blog of mine. You might read a title, anticipating that the entry is about something in particular, and then it's about something totally different. And so, it's a power we bloggers have, that we can easily pull the wool over your eyes.

That was just my entrance speech for this blog. What I really want to say is that I have always had the ability to write well -- not exclusively stories or poetry, but letters. While someone can sit and ponder for hours how to phrase something, how to get their point across, whether for business' sake or personal sake, I can formulate ideas and easily transfer them onto paper. The words always just seem to flow from me when it comes to writing -- letter by letter.

According to a general poll of my friends over the years, they all agree that they cherish my letters-- the letters were always wordy, descriptive, insightful. I took the time to write, to describe, to convey, and my friends looked forward to receiving mail from me if they traveled, or if I traveled, or if I just chose to write birthday or anniversary greetings. Many would request that I send a note for no particular reason, but just so that they could receive something from me. I know that some friends have every letter I ever sent them -- and they reassure me that it's not the quantity that counts, but the quality.

Some family friends have even told me over the past nearly-dozen years that they still have the thank-you notes I sent following my engagement party, my wedding, my children's births. Each recipient was deemed special and so, each note was treated individually. I guess my words left their mark.

These days it's much easier and quicker to e-mail folks than it is to sit and write letters, but still I try to throw in humor, description and anything else I can think of to reach my reader. The question: Could I possibly make a living or pull in some freelance work as a "professional letter writer"-- does such a thing exist?

Oh ya, maybe it does. Maybe I should be a celebrity's assistant who writes answers to all the fan club members -- I'll make them happy, especially when I make each one personalized that they'll think said celebrity answered them exclusively.

So, if you want to give me your address, maybe I'll sit down and write you a letter...

Songs in the Key of Life

While growing up, I knew just about every lyric to every contemporary song on the radio -- and just like in that game show Name that Tune, I'd announce, "I can name that tune in 3 notes!"

Reading, writing and music were my great loves, and I was usually busy with one of those, if not all three at the same time! Locked in my room, my AM-FM radio playing in the background, I'd be reading books, composing poetry or writing letters: all the while song lyrics were being imprinted on my brain.

When Janis Ian came out with "At Seventeen," I thought "That's my song." When Frankie Valli came out with "My Eyes Adored You," I thought "That's my song." The mellower the music, the closer it sat to my heart. After all, I was a poet, and song lyrics are really poems set to music.

When you listen to songs being sung, try to remove the lyrics from the music. Really listen to the words, and they'll tell a story to the audience. Some are catchier than others, some are sadder than others, and some touch you more than others. But they are all SONGS IN THE KEY OF LIFE.

Wendy Shalit Responds to the Responsa

http://www.jewishworldreview.com/0205/shalit_replies.php3

Click on this link to read Wendy's response to all those who pointed fingers at her after her NYT article appeared.

Kid Wit and Mom Wit...or Nitwit (you choose)

I have three, bli ayin harah, lovely children, who give me great joy...and countless gray hairs, too! But all in all, I have been blessed with these treasures, and I hope that one day they will say the same about their "eema"!

I don' t talk about them too much because I'm not the bragging sort -- I'm more of a silent "kveller"!

But I've been thinking of my oldest, a boy, and how just about 5 years ago, when he was in preschool, his photo was in the Canadian Jewish News along with my parents, the photo having been taken at a school event. When I'd been told that it would be in the paper, I relayed the news to A and said, "You're going to be famous." He starts jumping on his bed and shrieking, "I'm gonna be famous, I'm gonna be famous." Suddenly, in mid-jump, a bewildered look crosses his face. He pauses and says, "What's famous?"

My daughter's photo appeared in last week's Jewish paper -- see Zimriya -- and I now know that my article about Seraphic Press will appear in the paper this week, in a couple of days. I feel like taking A's lead, jumping up and down on my bed and shrieking, "I'm gonna be famous, I'm gonna be famous!" But then I stop in this imaginary play because I realize I already am famous -- my "published" words get to be read by... hundreds?... on a daily basis. Yeah, that's right, I'm a columnist already...yeah, a syndicated columnist. Yeah, people read my words from coast to coast...even over in Taiwan--Dan, you win; not "down" in Taiwan, but "over" in Taiwan. (Can anyone picture Jon Lovitz doing his "Yeah, that's right" shtick on Saturday Night Live?) Yeah, who needs some weekly community newspaper when I can cater my words to the WORLD?!?

Ya Gotta Be Seen on the Scene

When I was single and deliberating whether or not to go to a singles' event in Toronto, I called the coordinator of it and spoke to her at length about my dilemma. She put it this way: "If you stay at home, nobody will know that Pearl ____ even exists." She had a point; yes, she was a businesswoman, as my mother pointed out to me, and of course she wanted me to attend her event, but she opened my eyes to a truth.

Yes, I did go to the event, met some nice people and thereafter immersed myself in the Shabbaton scene in Toronto and further abroad...for about a year and a half until I was lucky enough to meet my husband locally and NOT AT A SHABBATON.

But the woman's comment stayed with me, and I now adapt it to other areas of my life: even if I'm not keen on attending a certain minyan, is it better for me to sit at home or be there and perhaps meeting new people; is it easier for me to sit on the sidelines and say "I should do this...and this...and this" or actually be doing it or trying to do whatever "it" entails.

And so, I'm now out there, in blogland, perhaps hovering around your site -- of course, Rome wasn't built in a day, and there are only so many hours in the day to go exploring new sites, but watch out 'cause I might get to yours one of these days -- and leaving comments or questions.

And in tribute to Neil Simon, who in Brighton Beach Memoirs offered a line like "Pearls are like people; they like to go out once in a while and be seen" -- I'm taking his words and the earlier words of that singles' event coordinator to heart. Maybe some of you will get to know this Pearl in time...!

Arthur Miller -- Dead at Age 89

Just found out that great American (oops, almost said Canadian!) playwright Arthur Miller died of heart failure.

Didn't just about everyone study at least one of his plays, or perform in a production of "Death of a Salesman"?

For years, while growing up, I heard that Mr. Miller was supposed to be a relative on my maternal side -- perhaps it was his father or grandfather (can't remember which) who left the Old Country to come to America. Anyhow, it was via his paternal side that I was supposed to have been related on my maternal side. (are you still with me? do you need a translator?)

Apparently some relatives tried to seek him out over the years and confirm this information, but he denied it -- what did he know? He was a playwright, not a genealogist! I even recall, when the Toronto Film Festival was on one year, I went down to the hotel where he was staying, with a letter in hand to be delivered to his room by hotel staff, explaining the "family link" -- after all, "mishpocheh is mishpocheh"! Needless to say, I never did get a reply.

But it also occurred to me all those years ago: If I was in fact related to Arthur Miller, as some first cousin thrice removed, or something offbeat like that, did that mean I was related to Marilyn Monroe, too? Had I been around in the fifties, might I have been able to call her up, invite her for a Shabbos dinner, and address her as 'cuz?

And I wonder: Would I also be able to call Daniel Day-Lewis, Miller's son-in-law, 'cuz? (You have heard of "six degrees of separation," haven't you? Well, this would be seven!)

May Arthur Miller rest in peace. Amen.

Everything Old Becomes New Again

I'm fickle--I like to redesign...like a Feng Shui thing going on. So every weeks, out of boredom, I try out on a new look/template for my blog. The reason I resorted now to my orginal style after a short-lived, appreciated template, was 'cause I SCREWED UP. Sometimes you just hit the wrong button and life don't look the same. My blog was being cut off, my comments cut off -- I took it as a personal thing and yesterday I took on a old/new look to correct matters.

It wasn't long ago that I learned how to link and show my fave sites, and only a few days ago was I guided in how to use the traffic meter. But you'll notice they're both gone from my current blog. Yes, I'll try to figure out how to list my faves once more, but I won't add the traffic meter. For what reason? To see if I'm popular, if I beat the number of hits your blog got this past hour or today, to see if someone in South America chooses to read my words? Really, what difference does it make? Popularity contests were supposed to be over with school, or at least when I gave up the dating life for marriagehood. I'm popular among my family and friends and co-workers and some of you bloggers out there who pat me on the back once in a while. That really should be enough.

I don't have to be the BLOGGER OF THE WEEK pinup--I just have to put some smiles on people's faces, or frowns on their forehead, or just give them an idea to carry further.

Why not try to get "back to basics" yourself and kick the habit of a traffic meter? The people who read you before will continue to read you, the people who critiqued you before will continue to do so, too.

Try it, you might like it....

Sitting on Shpilkes

Do any of you people know what it's like to sit on shpilkes? Those pins and needles get you antsy; it's tough to sit still; you're waiting...sometimes you're not even sure what it is exactly that you're waiting for.

In my case, I've been sitting on shpilkes for some time -- I'm restless at work, although my job entails deep concentration and being alert; I'm restless at home, and try to use the Internet as a tool for relaxation, but then again, some of you might notice that I'm not relaxed. You might see that I "hit" your site several times a day -- I like to see if there were any new postings or comments. I apologize, and I hope you don't go cursing me when you see that it's ONLY TorontoPearl who left a comment or was the person behind a viewing, and not someone new to the site.

Why am I on shpilkes you might ask? Not quite sure, but I think that a lot has to do with a project that I took on since October -- I learned about a web site -- www.seraphicpress.com -- which I've mentioned before. I befriended the creative and wonderful soul behind that site, and have chosen to help promote his work and that site. Although my life as I know it is very busy with work and family life, it now also has this added dimension. One of the ways I chose to promote "everything Seraphic" was by suggesting to our community Jewish newspaper that I write a piece about Mr. "Seraphic" -- I was given the green light and met the deadline of January 10, but not the word limit. Instead of some 750 words, I wrote (and wrote and wrote) nearly 1500 words, and offered an explanation to the editor as to why I felt I HAD to do so.

I'd have thought that my piece might appear in the paper the following week...but no. I've had to wait -- patiently? -- for it to make its debut. Space is an issue, and if the editor is kind enough to salvage most of those 1500 words, of course he needs space for the piece.

Well, yesterday I was finally notified that my piece is in the editing stage and is slated for publication probably in next week's edition. This Jewish newspaper is not just local or provincial, but it works its way across Canada and points beyond where ex-Canadians might choose to keep up with the major Canadian Jewish community news. So, there might be a pediatrician in Toronto who has the paper in his waiting room; there might be a librarian offering the paper to a patron in Montreal's Jewish library; there might be a snowbird reading the paper in Arizona or Florida; there might even be a recent "oleh" reading the paper in his room at the ulpan program in Raanana.

To think that my words will get noticed by numbers is delightful for me, as I don't make my living as a writer. To think that I will draw attention to Seraphic Press and the story behind it is worth more for me. I'd been asked at some point by a family member: "What's in it for you?" I was sort of taken aback and replied: "Nothing. Just making someone...and myself happy." (refer to http://wwwpearliesofwisdom.blogspot.com/2005/02/enjoy-helping-others.html)

As a copy editor and editor, I understand about author sensitivity to how her/his words are altered; now the shoe is on the other foot. I am the writer whose words will be edited...

Perhaps that is why I'm on shpilkes -- waiting for my piece to finally appear in the paper, and waiting to see how it's been shoicheted!

With Apologies to Carly Simon

Do you remember that great musical hit from the 1970s -- "You're So Vain" by Carly Simon? To this day her audiences don't know whom she wrote the song about, but there's great speculation, and Mick Jagger tops the list.

Well, in this day and age, Carly would have to change the lyrics just a smidgen...

"You're so vain
You probably think this blog is about you
You're so vain...
I bet you think this blog is about you, don't you, don't you...?"

Maybe some of you out there could help revise the rest of the lyrics -- why not give it a shot?

Enjoy Helping Others

"Experiencing joy in doing acts of kindness for others will increase the quantity and quality of your kind acts. When you enjoy doing things to help others, you will always be able to find enjoyable things to do. The life of a person who loves to do acts of kindness will be a life of joy."

Thank you, Rabbi Pliskin, for your uplifting thought for today.

There is an American standard song lyric that goes something like this: "...make someone happy, make just someone happy...and you will be happy, too."

Forget about doing a mitzvah for the sake of a mitzvah. Just think of putting a smile on someone else's face, and no doubt, as a result, you will soon have a smile on your own.

A Committee Member

Yes, dear readers, I am a committee member. Normally, I prefer not to sit on committees; I prefer hands-on interaction, the active rather than the passive. But I have sat on committees before: I sat on a PR/marketing committee for Toronto's Jewish Community Center for almost a year, but had no real impact there. I have been involved for twenty years with Toronto's Jewish Archives cataloguing committee, and that's okay because my work there is not about discussing policy, it's about restoration of documents, of categorizing history. I sit and work, not just sit and talk. I was on an editing committee for my children's school fund-raiser, an elegant and Kosher cookbook -- again, something I worked on, not just something I discussed.

Yes, dear readers, I am a committee member. And although I prefer not to sit on committees, this one's okay by me. It is the CHINUCH COMMITTEE of my children's school. I didn't request to sit on it, I didn't track down the chairperson to beg him to add my name to his committee list. Rather, I got a phone call from the school president, who told me that my name had been recommended to him to sit on this committee. I don't know who did the recommending, especially because I'm not a "macher" at the school -- we lay low for the most part as a school family -- but I do volunteer for them whenever I can. I was totally flattered that more than one person referred my name to the school president for the CHINUCH COMMITTEE.

Now for those of you who might not be familiar with the term, CHINUCH means "education" -- we discuss school policies, provincial requirements for secular education, the board of Jewish education's directives for religious studies, parents' needs and teacher's needs and administration's needs. We discuss whether all the school is doing is in tune with the school's HASHKAFA, philosophy. Wow, to think that I can sit on a committee, and that what I say might have a direct impact on how my $9000+ /year per child is being spent and whether or not our children's needs are being met. This behind-the-scenes look can be very eye opening for a parent, but the only requirement of me is CONFIDENTIALITY. That is not always an easy trait to observe -- Does my husband qualify as taboo to school information? I live with him; he's a parent in the school. Does my blog qualify as off-limits? Nobody at the school knows I blog, except my husband and children.

I guess to sit on my committee member's seat for the two-year reign is an honor in our school, and I should be ENLIGHTENED enough to respect that and the confidentiality code. So, folks, my lips are sealed: you won't get any info out of me; I promise not to say anything; don't even ask me to give you a hint... Okay, you want to know what they said last night? Okay, I give up, twist my rubber arm. Last night it was discussed that--

Shhh...silence is golden.

The Truth of the Matter

I've said it before and I'll say it again -- why do some folks even keep blogs? They're giving their readers a play by play of their day, down to the last moronic detail, and there are blog readers out there feeding off them! It's like knowing there's a popular soap opera: "Let's all tune in...Can't miss an episode...Tell me what happened yesterday...Did you see it?"

Some of these writers are filling dead space--with "nareshkeit."

But then there are the intellectual, brain-stimulating types, who ride a bright topic like a wave, wrapping themselves around their readers, warming them with real, not surface, feelings that come through in their words. I don't want to read about the surface you, I want to read about the essence you. The base human qualities that make you tick, the Torah that you know, the family that you love and interact with, the deep hurts that you feel, the books you read that move you, the mottos that you live by, the child that you were, the adult you have become.

I have radio, TV, magazines and newspapers to offer me current events, politics and sports trivia. What I don't have is enough "ordinary people". And that's what I'm looking for when I read or skim some of the blogs out there. Because sometimes it's that ordinary person who is the most special one of all!

Sign in Please...

Here's my guestbook for today. Sign in please...

Zimriya

I just returned home from Toronto's Zimriya -- a musical festival that hosts Jewish day school, Jewish high school and Jewish supplementary school choirs. My daughter is in her first year in her school's choir and I hope she continues with it until the cut-off, which is grade 6. To hear and see young children raise their voices in beautiful unity is most special.

Held in an acoustically perfect and beautiful modern concert hall, the Zimriya had a morning performance and an afternoon performance because there are so many outstanding Jewish children's choirs in Toronto. Today's performers all sang the famous songs of Naomi Shemer -- lyrical and lovely.

It was a reason for parents to sit and kvell and videotape or photograph. Or just smile and beam, as I do.

When the audience, together with the choirs en masse, sang "Oh, Canada," "HaTikvah" and "Yerushalayim Shel Zahav," it was as though Jewish angels were opening the gates of heaven. Beautiful and memorable.

http://www.cjnews.com/viewarticle.asp?id=5557&s=1

Writing from the Inner Self

I own a collection, a lovely eye-catching array of bound notebooks, whose pages have been filled over a thirteen year time span. I stopped writing in those books, my journals, the night I got engaged. That was about 11 1/2 years ago. I signed off the last page of the book -- how apropos that I'd reached a last page in a book, while closing off a chapter in my personal life, as well -- with "Chazak, Chazak v'Nitchazek." This is said when you finish reading a book in the Torah, and also start fresh.

Blank books were easily filled. Flowery scrawl dusted the pages with the vibrancy of youth, the streamofconsciousness always there for me. My motto of that time period was: "To read is human, to write is divine."

These days, however, the writing doesn't always flow. I look to my shelf and see a handful of books that are supposed to help me on my way in all matters literary. I have my standard thesaurus, Chicago Manual of Style, Merriam-Webster's dictionary. But then, I also have: The Pocket Muse: Ideas and Inspirations for Writing, by Monica Wood, published by Writer's Digest Books ( a prize I won in a contest) ; The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity by Julia Cameron ( a gift from my brother who tried to ease me on my way to writing); Ideas and Images: A Creative Journal for Authors, Artists and Lovers of Children's Literature, published by the Society of Children's Book Writers and Ilustrators ( a prize for my creative suggestion for a literary contest...of all things!); and lastly I own a book, bought by me in July 1991. It is called Writing from the Inner Self, by Elaine Hughes. It is a book that combines writing with meditation exercises and emphasizes the importance of looking to our inner selves as a source for our writing. The dust jacket reads: "...leads you to delve into your limitless supply of creative material, helping you dip into your memories, feelings, body sensations, observations, and imagination, and make something exist that was not there before."

I'd like to think that I do have a "limitless supply of creative material." Only problem is that the supply forgot to tell me where in Pearl's warehouse it's being stored! I'm waiting for some clues here...

If You Post It They Will Come

"Keep on posting and the readers will come."

So I've been told by a fellow blogger...

Should I believe him?

Taking Attendance

My office building is set in a bit of an industrial area, away from a main thoroughfare. But surprisingly there are some private schools housed within neighboring buildings. One of these schools, a private high school, is situated on the street behind our building, so students use our parking lot for overflow.

Crossing the lot this morning I took attendance of the students' vehicles: Lexus, Mercedes, Mercedes, (yup, two different styles) Volvo, BMW, Audi. It's like a luxury car showroom. I'd like to think that these cars belong to Mom and Dad, not to the kids, and that Mom and Dad demand the keys back at the end of the day.

Of course it is said that "Clothing don't make the man" -- so I'll take that and say that "Cars don't make a person, either." But when I see a 17-year-old driving a Mercedes or Audi, I just think that something is wrong with this picture.

Oh, wait, I see one of the students now getting back into his BMW. And what is that hanging from his mouth -- a cigarette, a lollipop? Oh, nope...it's a silver spoon!

Good Reads, or The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden go Walking Home

As a copy editor working in the trade fiction and genre fiction industry, I have an opportunity to do a lot of reading. As an English major in university -- all those years ago -- I had an opportunity to do a lot of reading. And unfortunately, due to both the school and work reading, I don't have the "cheshek" to do much reading after hours. Of course I love children's books and always will -- it's a pleasure for me to read to my three children and put on animated voices or act out scenes that I read. But in terms of reading books for my own pleasure, that's a rarity.

And for that reason, I'm more than thrilled that I can recommend two excellent reads that caught me and held me captive. They are each rather different from one another, but in the end they're both about the same idea: the human experience and the interaction with others to form that personal experience.

The first book is called The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden. It is categorized as young adult historical fiction, but the story is appealing to anyone from age nine to however high you can count. It was written by Robert J. Avrech, an award-winning Orthodox Jewish Hollywood screenwriter -- he co-wrote Body Double with Brian de Palma, and was the screenwriter for A Stranger Among Us. More recently, he won an Emmy Award for his adaptation of the YA novel The Devil's Arithmetic by author Jane Yolen.

The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden is the first release from Seraphic Press, a publishing house started by Robert and his wife, Karen, in memory of their twenty-two-year-old son, Ariel, z"l, who passed away in July 2003 as a result of a long bout with cancer. The publishing house is committed to publishing quality fiction for Torah-observant young people.

I'd love to go into details about the book, but I'd rather you check out Robert's site www.seraphicpress.com or refer to www.amazon.com or www.barnesandnoble.com. Just believe me when I say it is a worthy read, and Robert Avrech is a lovely human being -- a true mensch who has undertaken a very valid, time-consuming and life-altering project to help honor the memory of his son. Ariel lives on in the character of the Hebrew Kid. And his spirit lives on in every new literary project that Robert and Karen are planning for Seraphic Press.

Another book that I've had the good fortune of reading and enjoying immensely is called Walking Home, by Gloria Goldreich, and published by MIRA Books, January 2005. Again, I refer you to www.amazon.com or www.barnesandnoble.com for story details. But in short, the book is about a young single Jewish woman who reaches a crossroads in her life regarding her job, her family situation, her social life. She has to make some decisions that will change the course of her life, and becoming a dog walker helps her to see things more clearly. It is a very moving story and some readers might recognize pieces of themselves and their friends and family in among the pages. It gets gold stars by me!

I hope that you will take my recommendations and seek out these titles.

After all, quality books by quality writers deserve quality readers as yourselves!

"Adon Olam"

[I'm more than annoyed. I just spent about 15 minutes formulating a blog entry, and somehow it got lost...and is now floating around in cyberspace. If anyone finds it -- there is NO REWARD.]

Earlier today I found myself humming "Adon Olam" and was hit by a recollection from my junior high school years.

I attended the city's largest Jewish day school, a Talmud Torah school, and by grade 6, the boys and girls were separated for most of the Jewish studies classes, including Tefillah.

While in junior high, we had shlichim come from Israel to be our teachers in Jewish studies. They were lovely people who, with their families, had to adjust to their three-year tenures in a new country, in a new climate, in a new school. They also had to adjust to the trials and tribulations of teaching teenagers.

Teenage girls, being hormone-induced, can be downright cruel between the ages of 12-16, and can be very trying on an adult. Such was the case with our Tefillah class in grade 8, I believe it was.

One day, while waiting for our teacher to get to the classroom and lead us in Tefillah, one of the girls started singing "Adon Olam" -- but not to one of the two standard tunes. She sang it to "Jesus Christ, Superstar"! And the words fit to the tune! Other girls started to join in. Now imagine: it's a Jewish day school, a moderately Orthodox Jewish day school, and "Jesus Christ, Superstar" is being sung when the teacher walks in. I recall her yelling at the girls to stop, and having to say it more than once to get them to shut their "pisks". But these girls found it a challenge... And in a Tefillah class the next week, one of them piped up with "Adon Olam" sung to the tune of "Rock Around the Clock" as done by Bill Haley & the Comets. Somehow the teacher managed to control the class, but I can only imagine what an earful her husband would get at night when she came home after teaching.

Having witnessed these "new" versions of "Adon Olam," I tested out the theory that you could sing "Adon Olam" to the tune of nearly any song -- I sang it to Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue"; to "Killing Me Softly" by Roberta Flack; to " Yellow Submarine" by the Beatles. Somehow the theory hasn't failed me yet.

Why not try for yourself. Find a favorite and familiar R & B tune, pop song, Broadway showtune, or Hassidic melody and adapt "Adon Olam" to it. And if doesn't work...? [shrug] ....well, at least you'll have made some beautiful music -- to your ears!

A Mitch Albom Story

Jewish World Review Feb. 1, 2005 /22 Shevat, 5765
He was alive, but saw ghosts
By Mitch Albom


A few years back, a friend named Sonya told me about her father, who survived the Auschwitz death camp but lost everything else, including his young wife and 2-year-old son. He had come to America after the war, started a new life, a new family, worked into his old age as a sign maker in Detroit.

"He reads your column," Sonya said. "He'd like to meet you."

I promised it would happen, then, of course, never followed up. Now and again, she would mention it, and I'd say, "Oh, sure, sure, let's make the time," but again, I fell short.

Last month, in the empty days between Christmas and New Year's, I finally went to see Sonya's father. At this point, he was in a nursing home, having broken his collarbone after falling on the way to the bathroom. His body was thin, almost skeletal, a boy's body under the sheets, but his face, round yet bony, thin lips, narrow eyes, revealed the weariness of a tortured life.

"Hello, I'm — "

"I know who you are," he said, smiling, his voice weak.

He was 91. Or 89. No one is sure. It really doesn't matter. Once I heard his story, it was clear that the remarkable thing about Harvey Vinton wasn't how long he lived, but that he lived at all.
He was born Chaim Weinstein in a small Polish town, and his real first name, in Hebrew, means "life." Yet from birth it seemed that name was to be tested. Three days after he came into this world, his mother died. He grew up poor, raised by his grandmother. In time he married and had a son of his own. He was a fine artist and found work as a sign painter and monument carver. Thanks to beautiful penmanship — today you would call him a calligrapher — several shops in his hometown welcomed customers beneath his handiwork.

Then the Nazis invaded Poland. Jews were rounded up, humiliated, forced to wear yellow stars, earmarked, by Adolf Hitler, for murderous extermination. One evening, Chaim was returning from work when his train was stopped by German soldiers. He never made it home. Never saw his wife or son again. They were butchered in one concentration camp, he was taken to another, then another, then another. Before the Nazis were done with him, he was a prisoner in 11 different pits from hell.

Auschwitz was the last.

There he slept inches away from other Jewish prisoners who, like him, were kept so hungry and filthy you could scrape lice from their arms as if rubbing off sand from the beach. At night, he might whisper a few words to someone, and in the morning, find that person stiff and dead. Corpses were everywhere; no one hurried to take them away. To reach the toilet — which was only a piece of wood — he had to waddle through ankle-deep human waste. He was weak to the point of collapse, every day, because there was no real food, only rotted scraps and potato peelings. And these were the quiet moments, before the sun woke the Nazi guards and their daily torture commenced.

The purpose of the death camps was to wipe out the Jews entirely, and Chaim was put to work on various tasks, sometimes digging ditches for the bodies of his slaughtered camp mates. Dead Jewish corpses were stacked everywhere, women, infants, old men, waiting to be tossed into a pit. Some of them, Chaim remembered, were still gasping, still alive in a pile of death. He yearned to help them. What could he do? Their minutes were numbered. His, too, he thought.

But Chaim survived. He survived with his hands. The Nazis, having discovered his unique penmanship, used him to write letters. They used him to paint signs or portraits in their houses. He was a possession for the officers, a Jew with a talent, and so, even though the guards would sometime sic the dogs on him, allowing them to chew his legs and chomp on his arms, they didn't let him die. They always pulled him out and used him elsewhere. In this way, he lived when most everyone else died. It was, for the rest of his days, his blessing and his curse.

One winter day in 1945, Auschwitz was liberated by Russian soldiers, and an emaciated Chaim found himself alone in a strange village. People were saying, "You're free. Go." He stepped into the street. The sky began to spin. Then he collapsed.

He woke up in a hospital, stricken with typhoid fever. It was a disease that killed nearly everyone who had it. But true to his name, Chaim lived through it. He was sent to another camp, this one for displaced persons. He met a woman there. They married.

A few years later he came to America.

A holocaust, for those who survive it, might be past tense, but it is never the past. Through his years in Detroit, through his 40s, 50s, 60s and 70s, Chaim Weinstein — who changed his named to Harvey Vinton out of fear that his Judaism would mark him again — woke up screaming. He had horrible dreams. He had dark, sullen moments. He couldn't help but tell his story to family or dinner table company, often to the point where someone would say, "Enough, stop."
Stop? If only it would stop. He read incessantly about the Holocaust, the death camps, as if studying might yield some answers, some peace. He watched documentaries. He watched "Schindler's List." He retained his skill at drawing and calligraphy, but he never allowed himself to truly practice his talent. His love of art had been corrupted by the Nazis, as had his sleep, his memories, even his name. He was alive, but he saw ghosts.

Last year, Harvey fell into a coma. The reasons are still unclear. But when he came out of it, four days later, he spoke of an epiphany. He said he had been watching a TV program on the Animal Planet network when something came over him.

"The way those animals interact, the intricacies, the details," he told his daughter. "How could there not be a G-d?"

From that point forward, he seemed a changed man. Smiles came more easily. His voice and tone were calmer. He stopped talking about wanting to die, although he insisted he was "ready."
And, as it turns out, he was.

When I saw him, he was terribly weak. He spoke only of his shattered collarbone, his love for books and his mother, whom he never met but whose photograph was on the bedside table, as if to study her face for an upcoming reunion.

"I don't know how much longer I'm gonna be here," he said, not worried, not sad, as if he were simply curious about the schedule. Before I left, he thanked me no fewer than five times for coming.

Chaim Weinstein/Harvey Vinton died this month, on Jan. 5. He was found in a bathroom, unconscious, and expired minutes later on the bed in which I saw him. He missed, by a few weeks, the 60-year anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. Perhaps he didn't need the reminder.

But we do. We need to go to the nursing homes, to the senior centers. We need to hear the stories that are slowly being silenced by age and decay. A child of Auschwitz would now be 65 or 70. An adult prisoner would be approaching 90. The mantra Jews recite for their 6 million Holocaust victims is "never forget." But to do that, we must never stop hearing the story.

Be at peace, Chaim Weinstein. I should have come sooner.

The Plum Tree

The following is a poem that was written by me several years ago, and published in a Passover literary supplement of our national Jewish community newspaper. I'd originally started writing an essay about the 50th anniversary of my father's arrival in Canada in 1949, but as all writers know, literary intentions often take a road less traveled. Such was the tangent my writing took that day.

I am very proud of this poem, which was in print, and which I've also presented at two local poetry readings, one of them for a Holocaust-related arts presentation produced by the Simon Wiesenthal Center's Canadian division.

One day I hope/plan to convert this poem into a children's book for young or middle readers.


THE PLUM TREE

i.

Young boy – a son and brother –
You are a mentor and protector
to so many.
Uprooted at an early age –
father deceased, mother struggling to raise
a young family.


ii.

The streets of your village
are awash with scholars
who study with the great rebbe –
Talmud, Mishnah, Chumash, Halacha.
You peer through the dusty cheder windows,
longing to join them.
You are too young yet.
And yet, you are too old…
The branch that your mother
and siblings cling to for support.
You must bear fruit for the others,
and labor to do so.


iii.

Nature can be merciless at times,
giving and then taking away,
wiping out traces of life and beauty.
In time, a dreadful storm comes,
wiping out that cheder, that village…
your dear ones.


iv.

But you, thank God,
have been able to root temporarily
in other places.
And slowly, slowly, you awaken
after that harsh, stormy winter.
Weakened, you are warmed by the sun;
your fragility begins to heal.
And you are replanted yet again.


v.

A husband. A father.
A mentor and protector once more.
You move silently into your verdant garden and kneel,
shovel and soil beside you.
You recall Leviticus 19:23.
“And when you arrive in the land,
plant all manner of fruit trees…”


vi.

You are giving back to the earth,
Enriching it with new life. A plum tree.
Roots clinging to the cool earth, the tree grows,
flourishes…its branches strong.
Over time it bears fruit, and more fruit.
You harvest from its sweet gifts –
again and again,
repeating the cycle each year.

And you remember your roots…


vii.

“And he shall be like a tree planted by
the rivers of water,
that bringeth forth his fruit in his season;
his leaf also shall not wither;
and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.”

Psalms 1:3

Things That Make You Go "Hmmmm...."

In having a conversation today with my soon-to-be five-year-old, I was explaining family relationships, and that made me think back to my childhood.

Just like I have two boys and a girl, I am part of a similar equation. At some point in my early school years, it hit me: How come I can only say "I have two brothers" but my brothers could each say "I have one brother and one sister"? I thought something was wrong there -- I felt somewhat cheated; they had one of each! It's something that made me say, "Hmmmm...."

Another thing that I've always said "Hmmmm...." about has to do with the travel ad campaign for the Bahamas. IT'S BETTER IN THE BAHAMAS. Okay, I wondered. Better than what? Better than Mexico, better than ice cream, better than winning a lottery? Give me some clues here? But the Bahamas Tourist Office never did.

And when I was very young, I took things very literally. For example, I thought "horseback riding" meant riding backwards on a horse. Worse than that, I thought that an orchestra conductor raised his baton, and based on how he moved it around, is how the orchestra played. I never realized they had the music in front of them on stands. I also remember being young, staring up at the clouds in the sky and looking for Hashem's throne. I pictured him, perhaps like a mall Santa Claus, sitting way up high and looking down on the world. And to that end, when I was in the schoolyard, I'd look up and think: "How can Hashem be looking down on me here, while looking down on my parents at my house?"

I still often look at things, my head askew, with the natural curiosity of a young child -- but this child is forty-three these days! -- and say "Hmmmm....."

Auschwitz Remembered Sixty Years Later, and Thus...A Blog of Silence

I Am a Lifetime Member of the Rat Pack -- oops, I Mean Brat Pack -- oops, I Mean Pack Rats!

Yes, 'tis true -- I am a lifetime member of a special club: The Pack Rat Club. Whatever my status -- single or married, young or old, daughter, wife or mother -- I have been a member in good standing for well over three decades.

Lookin' for a Fiddler on the Roof Broadway show ticket from August 25, 1990? Yes, I have it. Seeking that university essay on "Biblical Imagery in THE STONE ANGEL"? Yup, I've got that, too. I even have a list of favorite boys' names and girls' names that I compiled many many years ago, names that I thought that I might one day name any children that I might have. I think at least one of those names got picked when I gave birth.

I have all, and I mean ALL, the letters that were received from an American penpal while I was in my early to mid-teens. Maybe I have to thank G-d that the friendship (which averaged two letters per month) fell by the wayside after a few years. Who knows? I might've had to add an exclusive "letter room" to my house.

Is being a pack rat a sickness, an obsession, a form of entertainment or just a conversation piece? I don't know -- I've always just thought myself to be nostalgic, or called myself a sentimental fool.

Over the past few years, along with my husband's help and some heavy-handedness on my part, I've learned to comb through my "treasures," salvage what is REALLY important, and discard the rest.

I'm actually one of those moms who has kept EVERY little piece of art that my children brought home, not displaying every piece on the fridge door, mind you, but stashing the creativity in a bag. But those bags accumulated -- what with having three children -- so with hubby's help I saved "the best" and tossed the rest. SO who cares if I have 3 mock seder plates, or 3 Megillat Esthers, or 3 "Bruchim HaBaim" signs for my sukkah. Only problem? These days I have to find which bag I stored them in!

Yes, I'm still a member of this not-so-exclusive club, but I'm not keeping up so much with the other lifetime members; I don't go to so many of their meetings anymore, either. If I did, I'd just have to save the programs...and who's got room for those!?

**********************
Just a little poll:
If anyone out there has been reading this, do you think I have some start-up material here for a personal essay to be submitted to a daily newspaper? I'd up the humor, up the examples, etc. Would you find such a piece entertaining to read in a local or national newspaper?

Grab a Snack at the Blogeteria

I try to be simple but eloquent in what I say in my blog; I cannot spout politics or Halacha or too much about psychology or current events, so I try to keep things simple. Perhaps it sounds as if I'm pussyfooting around and being very cautious in what I tend to say, thus keeping private matters private, and maintaining a reasonally low profile in the blogging world. But I am content enough with my pearlies of wisdom.

But, man, have I been reading some "let it all out" entries that people feel the need to relay. Not everyone uses discretion, "shmirat lashon" or fine-tuning with their words. They let it all hang out! Of course, I don't have to choose to read these blogs, but some of them seem to draw readers in with their "shmutzy" tones, or revelation of family secrets, or their promiscuity. You can go from reading blogs that sound staid and idyllic to blogs that go deep behind the scenes...scenes I don't think anyone really needs to read about.

And I've learned about the underworld of bloggers -- the black (mad) hatters, the velvet kippot keepers, the wanna-lose-their-sheitel types -- in essence the ultra-Orthodox who have had it up "to there" with being fed Halachic truths, and maintaining lifestyles that are "yashar, yashar". These folks have discovered an outlet for their frustrations, their confusion, their anger and disgust with all they've been taught.

It is sad to read about these people who, in some shape or another are leading double lives as frummies to those around them, but are beginning to feel more secular in their hearts. In a way I'm pleased that they've found the blogging outlet a wonderful tool to use to rant about their disillusionment with Yiddishkeit, but I also feel sad that many people reach that point in their lives...and those closest to them do not even realize it. Instead, these people have to use mass media as a tool, and anonymous readers as an audience to help strengthen their belief of disbelief.

I will not name these bloggers, I will not point a finger, but I wish them all much strength to either come back to the path of the righteous, or continue on their path to....?

In Search of ... What?

So my deadlines for freelance writing and copy editing have passed. I met the deadlines and could then breathe a heavy sigh of relief, generally pleased with my output, my ability to correct the work of others as well as my own.

But now there are no immediate turnaround dates looming over my head -- no reference books to confer with, no style sheets to keep, no red pencils to sharpen or Post-its to write on. There are no word counts to try and adhere to, no reworking of sentences "just one more time," no accompanying letters to write to the editor.

Zip, nada, "kloom"!

And you know what, folks? I feel at somewhat of a loss. I don't quite know what to do with myself with this "free time." Of course, I have a family to look after, and I do, but after they've gone to bed, for once I, too, can go to bed. I don't have to lay out manuscript pages on the dining room table in just the right order, I don't have to lug out Webster's and Chicago Manual of Style from their places on an upstairs shelf, I don't have to put on my thinking cap, which I already discarded when I walked in the door after work!

I do have a story that I've been asked to write -- and I promised that I could only TRY to do so. Not because I don't have the time, but because I haven't written a short story since my teens probably. And believe me, that's quite a number of years ago! So I have the brilliant idea that's been given the green light; it's now just a matter of executing it, playing with the idea, shaping it and reshaping it till it feels just right.

So why am I addressing my blog instead of confronting head-on the short story, "The Face in the Mirror"?

Isn't It Funny?

I work in book publishing. I enjoy reading. I also write -- and sometimes publish -- poetry primarily.

Isn't it funny then -- not as in "ha-ha," but as in a great coincidence -- that the first poem I ever shared with the public eye was a submission for a literary contest put out by our public library. That poem, so simplistic as it was written by an eight-year-old, won 1st prize in my age category and was posted for all the library patrons to see. My prize? A lovely book.

I guess I've definitely met my calling: books, writing and publishing poetry...and considering myself a winner every day -- in every way!

What Would the Poskim Say?

This happened to me many years ago when I was much younger and not as enlightened. I will relay the situation, and I'd appreciate reading any follow-up Halachic insights or firm answers.

In my middle teen years, I once went to use an ATM that was in a supermarket. (Perhaps I should say that the supermarket is located in a neighborhood, surrounded by many apartment buildings in which senior citizens live.) I put in my card, requested $20 and when the money was spit out, I received my $20 PLUS another $60. The withdrawal slip only showed that $20 had been removed from my account.

I was somewhat stunned but looked around the machine on the floor to see if there were any dropped withdrawal slips, thinking that perhaps someone had dropped it and forgotten to take their money. The money had been spit out with mine; it was not in the slot when I started my transaction.

I didn't know what to do -- I'm an honest person by nature, but sometimes suspicious, and thought that if I go to the store manager and explain the situation, he might just pocket the money for himself and not contact the bank whose machine it is in his store. But then again, might one of the pensioner seniors have somehow left it behind? Or was the ATM just malfunctioning and it was my lucky day...and perhaps I should go back for some more good luck later in the day, and treat the ATM like a winning slot machine?

I took my $20 and that $60 and went home. I put away the "found" money and didn't use it for a long time. I can't remember if I used it all for personal reasons or perhaps gave some tzedaka with it.

I did get a response from a learned cousin of mine years later when I posed the question. If I recall correctly, I was told that it was sort of "open territory" money -- didn't really belong to the bank, so I was able to claim it for myself. Which I had done.

But as you can tell, I've never forgotten that experience, and still wonder about the rights and wrongs of it. If anyone can advise, thank you.

The Five-Year Plan...Not!

Life is funny -- you make schedules, you make plans, you book appointments, you chart routes both literally and figuratively. And you try to maintain those schedules, follow through with those plans, keep those appointments and try not to get lost when you take those decided-upon routes.

I know people who prepare budgets, discuss future schools for their t00-young children, simchas for their too-young children, vacations for themselves, home-improvement ideas for the exterior and interior of their home -- these are people with a five-year plan.

Is there something wrong with me if I don't have that kind of plan? If I can't make that kind of plan? I can't even plan for next week, or next month or later in the year -- how can I plan for the next five years?

Our shul requires families to book with deposit a bar mitzvah three years in advance because of competitive popularity of this particular shul -- how can I know three years prior, when my son is ten years old, what kind of/quality of simcha we'll be having, therefore which of the shul's several social halls I will want to use, whether or not my son will read the whole parsha or just haftorah, or even if we'll still be living in the area and attending that shul?

A lottery. The bar mitzvah dilemmas in the shul are settled by a lottery. Remember that infamous short story "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson...? Not sure I want to partake in this bar mitzvah lottery. Why, what am I -- a rebel with a CLAUSE!?

I'm always being told by people around me, "Pearl, gotta remember... zrizut." [expedience, speediness] In other words, adhere to the motto "The early bird catches the worm." I don't like worms and I'm not in the mood to catch any. So does that make me a bad person?

I've learned from personal experience that even the best-made plans encounter glitches -- life gets in the way. Whether it be due to illness or something far worse, whether it be due to acts of nature, whether it just be due to cold feet on your or someone else's part, "things don't always go according to plan."

So there you have it. In that cliche. Proof that I shouldn't make a five-year plan -- so why is everyone else not listening?

A Note from a Friend

This is an English language web site that describes a very sad, yet moving chapter inTaiwan's history -- about a Hsinchu husband and father during the White Terror period who had to hide from the government police -- for 18 years, hiding in a small space between two walls in his brother's home. Read it and weep! History is worth remembering....

http://shihruchen.blogspot.com

Deadlines, Deadlines

HELP! I'm trapped in deadline land. For over four weeks I've known about deadlines that I have -- to do freelance editing and freelance writing. Yes, I worked on my assignments, a little at a time; my spare time is limited, after all! I could have done more earlier; I should have done more earlier.

As a writer/editor, I wait for that creative muse to find me and hit me over the head. Sometimes she's busy with other folks, and can't get to me so fast. Other times, she's got the address, but just can't find me for the flurry of paperwork atop my desk, or the piles of "stuff" that block her way -- that might be a laundry basket, some unwashed dishes, coats that need to be hung up... But when we do meet up, often it's with that too-soon-for-comfort turnaround date looming over my head.

In this case, that date happens to be tomorrow! Will I get to sleep tonight, or will I have to take work off tomorrow to meet that deadline? Have I done as fine a job as I can possibly do with these two assignments? Time will tell. If I'm able to link you to my article in a future blog, I'll know that everything worked out okay...even if it was somewhat stressful to get there. And if my freelance editing piece passes muster, then all is good "in my book."

Walkin' the Dog

We moved into a new neighborhood not all that long ago; it wasn't because we were "movin' on up" -- we'd already had a lovely large home, not a starter home by any means. But we moved for our children to be closer to their school, to their friends, to a good shul that offered appropriate programs for them. Isn't it only normal for all parents to do things for their children's betterment?!

Lucky us, we managed to buy and move into a beautiful neighborhood that has some VERY EXPENSIVE, UPSCALE homes -- our home is one of the older -- and cheaper -- ones, but land around us is still being developed, and the nearby golf course is not being parceled off for that, thank goodness.

Anyhow, when we moved, His Royal Pug Highness, Tyson Pugsley, of course moved with us. Not only were we in a new neighborhood, so was this king of the canines! There were new trees, new mailboxes, new fire hydrants to sniff out. New routes to plan out. New parks to check out. He wasn't complaining one bit -- there were lots of new doggie pals for him to power walk with. But let me tell you, power walking with a dog is not the same thing as power walking with a person. You attempt to walk, and he uses everything in his power to stop you short in your tracks, with him at the other end of the leash, doing his thing.

But one of the nicest things for me is to be able to go out into this residential neighborhood in the early morning or in the latest of night, and walk, and feel safe, and not have to look twice over my shoulder or around the corner. Sometimes I meet another female midnight dog walker, and I think that she, too, is fearless. We're not pushing our luck here by doing the late-night solo stroll, we're just lucky to be able to do it SAFELY in our neighborhood!

It's 12:30 in the morning now, and I think I'll go take Tyson out for a breath of fresh air. Anyone care to join us...?

Do Check Out This Site

http://www.nextbook.org/

If you have time on your hands, and you're tired of just reading blogs, do check out this Web site: it's stimulating, entertaining and offers tidbits of information that might not normally reach you via other media sources.

Just Because...

And just because it was kindly suggested to me in the comments section to share some of my poetry in my blog, I'll provide you with a poem that was published in a Canadian Jewish literary review a few years ago. It was written in memory of an aunt of mine who lived in Eastern Europe and died in 1942, age 15 -- at the hands of the Nazis. My daughter is named for this cherished little sister of my father.

As a child of a survivor, the Holocaust has played a great role in my life, in my way of thinking, of living, of being. And it often translates into poetry, some of which has been published, other poems just waiting patiently to be shared.

I am glad this one was published, and I am pleased to share it with you.



The Doll


Her body,
tattered and torn,
discolored dress
unraveling at the seams,
face smudged with dirt.

But her eyes,
lifelike in their ocean blue,
stare unceasingly at the world –
as if taking in all the fine details,
as if memorizing them
for some future time.

The little girl
clutches her prized possession.

Her dress, too, is tattered and torn,
its yellow star fading, but not fast enough.
Her face, too, is smudged with dirt.
Her ocean-blue eyes,
so like the doll’s
as they stare unceasingly at the world –
as if documenting the fine details,
as if memorizing them
for some future time.

The child looks
at the man
who offers her pieces of chocolate.
“Czekolada, czekolada.”
He holds out the treat to her.

She shakes her head no.

“Matka, Matka.”
Mother, Mother,
she replies.

“Martwy.”
Dead, he says matter-of-factly.

And as the little girl holds her doll
to her chest, she points to it.
“Lalka.” Doll.
And then she points to herself.
“Matka.”

Rabbi Twerski's Words of Wisdom for Today

Tevet 23

Where were you when I established the earth? (Job 38:4).

One who reads the book of Job cannot but have compassion for just and pious Job, who appears to be unfairly subjected to suffering. All the rational arguments that his friends offer to account for his innocent suffering appear hollow, and the only acceptable answer is God's remark to Job, "Where were you when I established the earth?"

In other words, a human being can see only a tiny fragment of the universe, an infinitesimally small bit of time and space. Our vantage point is much like a single piece of a huge jigsaw puzzle, a tiny fragment of the whole picture, which makes no sense on its own. Only when the entire puzzle is assembled do we realize how this odd-shaped piece fits properly. Since no human being can have a view of the totality of the universe in both time and space, we cannot possibly grasp the meaning of one tiny fragment of it.

This explanation does not tell us why the innocent may suffer, but only why there cannot be a satisfactory explanation. Acceptance of suffering therefore requires faith in a Creator who designed the universe with a master plan in which everything that happens has a valid reason. This belief may not comfort a sufferer nor prevent the sufferer from becoming angry at the Designer of the universe. The Torah does not in fact condemn the anger of the sufferer (Bava Basra 16b), but does require that he accept adversity with trust that God is just (Deuteronomy 32:4).

Acceptance does not mean approval, but it does allow us to avoid the paralyzing rage of righteous rage, and to go on with the business of living.

Today I shall ...... try to realize that nothing ever happens that is purposeless, and that I must go on living even when I disapprove of the way the world operates.

Publishing Houses Take Over Your Streets

www.hometownannapolis.com/cgi-bin/read/2005/01_03-22/CBN

If you can, do check out this link. It was a cute article sent to me today from a friend in Taiwan.

Being that I work in the publishing world, I couldn't help but enjoy what I was reading, and want to share it with you.

And as I told my friend, I wouldn't mind living on Penguin Place or Doubleday Drive. How about you...?

The Makings of a Poet

So, New Year, new beginnings... Nu?

Remember that resolution list I mentioned, with one of the items being that I should continue to write...and submit my stuff? Well, last night after Shabbos, I opened up my e-mail to find a message from an American Jewish literary journal, telling me that a poem I'd submitted to them a couple of weeks ago was accepted for publication in an upcoming issue.

It is not a new poem; I wrote it last year and submitted it to a Canadian literary journal, alas to no acceptance. But this is even better for me -- it will bring me exposure in the States. Maybe I'll become a household name -- in some homes. "Look at that Pearl's writing. She's good...!" I am thrilled, and the acceptance of this particular poem, "And One More for Good Luck," touches a personal heartstring as the poem is about two people I love very much.

Now, do you think this might be a good sign for a possible acceptance from L.A.'s Jewish Journal -- I also recently submitted some of my "pearls" to them, in this case personal essays. The essays are also not new material, but pieces I wrote five-plus years ago.

Perhaps everything old becomes new again...

Might this 43-year-old follow suit...?

I'm Gonna Make a Resolution... (think Beatles, and "Revolution" tune)

Do I dare make resolutions for the New Year? Should I give a shout-out to 2005 that I'll do what I say I'll do? Or would I be lying?

I made one major one for Rosh Hashanah -- I joined a women's-only health club, planning to go at 6 a.m. 3-5 days a week when said club opens its doors. But my resolution has fizzled so far -- no 6 a.m. visits have been made, and I've only gone about 8 times since I joined 2 1/2 months ago.

Should I pick up on that resolution and re-resolve to visit the club religiously...or at least VISIT THE CLUB?

I think I'll put it on my list of things to do. But in no particular order, I should also resolve to:

* Follow through with what I set forth in motion, ie. querying publishers about picture-book manuscripts or poetry that I have written, requesting they view my work. I have been given the green light from several, but have not taken that next step. I should.

* Keep writing personal essays, poetry, children's books. I should not just list the titles and ideas I have for creative pieces, but should actually breathe live into these projects.

* Make time for me.

* Make more time for my husband and children...and parents and siblings and their families.

* Enjoy each moment to the best of my ability because time is fleeting.

* Continue to strive to be the best person that I can be.

* Continue to look for the good in the people around me, even if it's not so obvious.

* Continue to be thankful to Hashem for all that I am, all that I have and all that I can be.

Wishing you all a Good Shabbos. Wishing you a bright and beautiful 2005.

Please, and Thank You

I kept a journal for YEARS--books upon books, details upon details. The books were not just catchalls for my thoughts, but also held mementos: ticket stubs, airline boarding passes, snippets of articles, quotes I cherished, cartoons from the New Yorker, ads from New York magazine (funny, there's a trend there; I think this Torontonian wanted to take a bite out of the Big Apple), comedy material I'd written, etc.

I loved journal writing, but knew that I was doing it just for me -- nobody would share my words, nobody would have access to these sacred books that had my personal stamp all over them....

But a blog is somewhat different; it is an extension of the journal writing I did, but the personal words have become public words, the personal thoughts finding their way across vast distances that lay well beyond my computer screen.

So to that end, I must ask a favor of you pearlies of wisdom readers...if there are any. Could you please leave me a comment every now and then, just to let me know that I do have people interested in what I have to say. I have chosen to keep a public blog, not a personal diary, and to that end I need readers. It's difficult to write in a vacuum, without getting any feedback.

But I musn't be negligent and I must say thank you to those of you folks who have already left comments since I started my blog earlier this month. So thank you. Keep writing, and I will, too!

"I'm Excellent"?

In one of the books that I recently read for my job, there is what I consider to be a great exchange.

"How are you?"

"I'm excellent -- if things were any better, it would be unfair to everybody else."

How I wish each and every one of us could say that today -- but unfortunately we can't. There is illness, death, forces of nature at work, there are people who have lost their homes and their livelihoods; there are countless details, big and small, that hold us back from giving an answer like this when we're asked the question "How are you?"

But, oh, how I wish we could respond in unison, "I'm excellent" -- and mean it!

Tsunami Terror

How can I sit in the comfort of my own home, amidst my loving family, and not make mention of what's going on at the other end of the world?

I heard the news on the radio, I read online the numbers of missing and dead, but until I saw the images on television news, and heard the interviews of people who were caught up in the midst of this terror, I could not begin to fathom the depth of the destruction.

A cultural face of our earth has been terrorized by nature -- isn't nature supposed to be beautiful for the most part, encouraging growth and rebirth? It isn't supposed to rob us of lives and livelihoods and homes and countrysides. But it does...

So today I must say a silent prayer for all those people whose lives were lost, all those children who were too young or too weak to fight this natural disaster, all those whose families have been torn apart. And I pray that those who are still missing might miraculously be found, alive and well, to carry on as best they can, as beacons for others.

No Two Pearls Are Alike

Did you know that no two pearls are alike? One may wear a strand of pearls and at first glance, they all look the same, but on closer regard, one sees it's true: no two pearls are alike.

I think that the same holds true for people named Pearl -- we might be similar: in our modes of dress, in behaviors, in language we use, in our sense of humor. I have a close friend named Penina, which means Pearl in Hebrew. In so many ways we're the same, but in so many others we're different. Someone can say to me, "You remind me so much of Penina"; they do not say, "You're just like Penina." I am reminiscent of her; I am not interchangeable with her.

When I was in Israel twenty years ago, I roomed on kibbutz with Israeli soldiers who, because they were frum, did kibbutz duty. They were constantly telling me,"Yesh lach jewkim barosh," translating as: You have bugs in your head, off beat ideas. Or else they used a slang expression, totally new to me: "At g'noova," translating as: You're stolen. They tried to further explain what they meant and kept convincing me that it was complimentary--I was unique, one of a kind.

In my growing-up years, until my mid-teens, I did not want to be different, I didn't want to be one of a kind; I wanted to be like everyone else and be accepted as such. But that wasn't always the case -- I had an old-fashioned name; I was a child of European-born parents; I wasn't cool; I was academically inclined; I was a bookworm-- I was considered different than my school peers. In the impressionable years, it's tough to be different. The ego rides a roller coaster, sometimes leaving its passengers behind, as they stand and watch the ride go on without them.

But somewhere along the way, I grew more comfortable in my skin, more self-assured of my abilities and my strengths, and more accepting of other people's biases and immature attitudes. It was okay to be the Pearl I was meant to be. As I would describe myself, "Conservative...but with a twist!"

Just recently I was told by a friend: "...But you are Pearl -- an original in every way, and for that I am greatly relieved."

I think I've come pretty far in my "pearldom." It's nice to know that this Pearl is definitely one of a kind and precious to many...

It's the Little Things That Count

Well, good people, that Arctic tundra from a few days ago has lingered, but it's had a little help from snow plows and shovels and snow blowers.

Today shone bright but cold, and normally a day for me to announce, "I'm not going to shul, I'm going to relax at home." But I had no choice: we were invited out to lunch after shul.

So my husband and the two oldest bundled up in their winter finest of boots, hats, gloves, snow pants, down-filled jackets, and sub-zero-temperature heavy parkas and headed out early to make the normally-30-minute trek...today, perhaps to take a bit longer.

An hour later, I, too, bundled myself up and my youngest son, not yet five, ready to encounter the Toronto winter elements. Now, aside from the frosty air and snowy and icy surfaces, what was to make this day different for us, was that it was to be my son's literally first trek to shul. This child was accustomed to being pushed in a stroller or pulled in a wagon for 30 minutes, which normally become 35-40 as I have to stop and listen to what he's saying, or ask what he just said, or check out a bird nest he's pointed out, or have to ask a passing dog owner what the dog's name is -- the walk is usually a walk of discovery between this mother and child.

But today I knew that the stroller's wheels wouldn't manage to cut through the sidewalk's snowy surfaces without breaking off, and the wagon's wheels would probably tumble off their axis, as well. It was a day for my son to walk.

We held hands and set out, slipping and sliding along the way, climbing up and down man-made "mountains" at street corners and major intersections, discovering this winter wonderland of ours. Not once did he complain, not once did he cry for the lack of stroller to shepherd him to shul; he only asked which shul we would be going to, because we're members of two of them, one closer than the other. And today we were going to the one farther away!

My little trooper managed, and together we made the "treacherous" walk in about 40 minutes. I told him how proud I was of him, making his first walk to shul, in these particular conditions. Pleased with this compliment, he tromped into shul with his rosy cheeks, with his cherubic grin and said, "Can I take off my boots...hat...jacket...snowpants now?"

Like I named this piece, it's often the little things that count.

I hope that you, as parents, also learn to consider each baby step a giant step...in the right direction!

To that end, here are the beautiful lyrics to Canadian singer-songwriter Amy Sky's "Ordinary Miracles." She, too, recounts in this song, which she wrote for her son, everyday accomplishments that count for so much more.

ORDINARY MIRACLES

AMY SKY- DAVID PICKELL

At six weeks you learned to smile
at three months you learned to laugh
at six months you cut a tooth
and at ten months you took a step

At two years you made a best friend
at three years you rode a bike
at four years you learned to skate
and at five years you learned to write

CHORUS
Just ordinary miracles
ordinary miracles
but all the same they're miracles to me
the days that Ill remember well
have a simple kind of wonderful
of ordinary miracles

Your silky head beneath my chin
for bedtime books and lullabies
your angel kiss upon my cheek
your teddy bear clutched to your side

How soon the bike wheels turn to car wheels
the lullabies to rock and roll
the teddy bears to pretty girls
and instead of you these thoughts I'll hold

CHORUS
Just ordinary miracles
ordinary miracles
but all the same they're miracles to me
the days that Ill remember well
have a simple kind of wonderful
of ordinary miracles

BRIDGE
And I know the day will come
that you'll spread your wings and fly
but I'll treasure these moments all my life

A gentle kind of wonderful
the sweetest days are always full
of ordinary miracles
each time I hold you near
it's an ordinary miracle

Latte Music (SOCAN)/ Warner Chappell Music Canada