Post Election Blues

I seem to have offended a great many people, some of them close relatives, by not getting on the anti-Trump band wagon.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised.  I thought that "blood is thicker than water".  But yet another of my illusions has been shattered.  And "am I blue".

In my view, most votes in this past election were against one or the other candidate.  They were both terrible.

I think the protests in the street are exactly what the media predicted the volatile and subhuman Trump supporters would do when they inevitably lost.  I fully expected Clinton to win by a substantial margin.  I'm as surprised as anyone else.

Deep inside, I am relieved that I won't get to see a continuation of the Clinton and Obama years.  But I look with trepidation toward the Trump years.  I am relieved because, as a resident of Israel, I expect that a Trump administration will be able to tell right from wrong in the Middle East.

In America, I have been shocked by Universities where people who hold opinions that aren't left-wing have been badgered and threatened into silence; where Jewish students are not safe; where Palestinians are heroes and dead Jews deserved it; where Professors are subject to administrative censure for using the wrong personal pronouns.  By a National government that sees fit to bring suit against a State that only wants to have two bathrooms - Men and Women; a President who forces a divisive agenda through Presidential caveat rather than legislative compromise; a White House which gives incentives to our enemies, and the cold shoulder to our allies.  A country where police are always guilty and offenders always innocent.

Unfortunately, in opposing all of that, a pandora's box of ugliness has been opened on the other extreme.  A pandora's box that has nothing to do with the second amendment, or family values, or religion.  Crawling out from under that rock are not Christians (although some claim to be), and not white males (although they are undeniably counted among them).  Hate does not know left or right.

These creepy-crawlies are emerging from under the same putrid rock that produced the "safe spaces",  and the hate Israel rallies, in addition to what I mentioned above.

The Republican sweep will hopefully pull our country back toward the center.  I felt certain that this election would spell the end of the Republican Party.  And maybe it will.  But, it is the Democratic Party that is doing some deep reassessment.  If you spend your tenure in power going out of your way to offend the sensibilities of the heartland, then you have to expect this kind of reaction.  Abraham Lincoln had the ability to evaluate just how far popular support would let him go.  Nowadays, they rely on polls, which we now know are terribly flawed.

The new Republican government better keep this in mind.  And they had better rein in the crazies.  They had better display the appropriate humility.  Because only half the country voted for them.  And they won't have much time to do it.

But, the election is over.  So, I'm in favor of getting on with it.  It's going to be an interesting ride.

Or is it just me?

In the Beginning

בס״ד

Within the vast warehouse of trivial information that I have stored in my cobwebbed attic of memories, is an old Firestone Tires advertisement: “The name that’s known is Firestone…Where The Rubber Meets the Road.”

“Where the Rubber Meets the Road.”  That’s the way I feel when we come around to Shabbat Bereishit.  

I’ve been pounding my chest since the 17th of Tammuz, all the way through the three weeks, and Tisha B’Av.  This was followed by Elul, culminating in a week of early morning slichot, Rosh HaShanah, the 10 days of Teshuva, and Yom Kippur.  Then came the simcha gauntlet.  I took my Lulav and Etrog in hand.  I ate, slept, and learned in my sukkah for a week of the most wonderful Sukkot weather in living memory, leading inevitably up to Hoshanah Rabbah and Shemini Atzeret/Simchat Torah.

And now, finally, we come to Shabbat Bereishit.  We start the reading of the Torah again, literally, from the “Beginning”.

This past Friday night, I found myself making the usual kiddush - remembering the Creation of the World, on the very day when we read that portion from the Torah once more.

“It was evening and it was morning” - we have struggled from the night of the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash. Through the flames we have cleansed ourselves and crawled up towards the light of day, and reconnection with our Creator.  

“And the Heavens and the Earth were finished”.  We have been recreated.  We are new creations.  Hopefully, in a form closer to the image of God than before.

Really?  Am I really different?  Have I identified all the flaws that I needed to discover, and have I rectified them.  Is my relationship to man and God “new and improved?”

It is odd, but I find Shabbat Bereishit more challenging than all that preceded it.  Why?  Because this is “Where the Rubber Meets the Road.”  This is where, in the words of Sam Gamgee in The Lord of the Rings, I get to “show my quality.”  Boot Camp is over.  Now it’s time to go out into the “shetach” with my new weapons and armor and see what I’m really made of.  Here comes the shakedown cruise.

It's scary.  I think I’m ready, though that’s probably an illusion. This last year was one of considerable personal struggle and growth.  And most of that coincided with and occurred, astonishingly enough, from the month of Tammuz onward.  And for that I owe a debt of gratitude to someone who shook me to my roots, and sent me spiraling into a place that forced me to finally forge a truer relationship with my Creator.  Except for “thank you for rebuking me”, that’s all I’m going to say about that.  But as my youngest child once reminded me, our tests and trials are not bumps in the road; they ARE the road.

And think about this:  We have nine months between now and the next Tammuz.  Nine months of gestation before again being forced out of the womb, out into the flaming darkness, to be melted down and reforged once more.

Avraham Avinu underwent ten trials.  Rashi and Rambam enumerate them differently.  If you combine both opinions, they add up to fourteen or fifteen.  I heard an amazing dvar Torah over the Yomim Tovim that made quite an impression.  (Of course, I don't remember who said it, or on what day, or else I would give the appropriate attribution.  If I do recall, I will update accordingly.)  

The speaker pointed out that when God rescinded his command to Avraham to offer up Yitzchak as a sacrifice, it is only then that God says "now I know that you are a God-fearing man".  There have already been nine trials.  Is it possible that only now God knows Avraham's true nature?  Hasn't he proved himself already?  The speaker's answer is astounding.  The tenth trial was really designed to see what Yitzchak would do.  If Avraham could pass on to his child his attribute of complete devotion, then Avraham must truly be completely devoted.  It took the actions of Yitzchak to ultimately prove Avraham's nature.

And so it is with us.  If we can look out upon the ripple effects - at least the ones we can observe - of our thoughts and actions, then maybe we can get an inkling of how well we're doing.

I can only hope that when the rubber meets the road, I don't leave too many skid marks.

Or is it just me?

All For the Byrd

“Get up!  Get up, you lazy son of a _____!!”  

Dr. Mitchell A. Byrd and Peregrine Falcon

Dr. Mitchell A. Byrd bolted upright, jolted from his brief unplanned snooze.  “What! What! I'm up! I'm up!”.  Luckily, he didn’t jump up and hit his head on the low ceiling of the blind.

Doug Davis, realizing the misunderstanding, roared with laughter.  “Not you, Dr. Byrd.  The Pigeon!”

Both of them were sitting in a duck blind, on the edge of a salt marsh on Fisherman Island, Virginia.  And the pigeon in question was the bait in a live trap which they had set in order to trap, band, and release birds of prey - mostly small to medium-sized hawks.  The pigeon had to move around in order to attract the hungry raptors.  Both the pigeon and Dr. Byrd had dozed off in the heat of the day.

I knew about this, because I was doing the same thing at the same time.  From 1977 to 1980, I was a Biology graduate student at William & Mary (officially, The College of William & Mary in Virginia).  I wandered all over eastern Virginia studying birds of prey, and Bald Eagles in particular.  My major professor, believe it or not, was Dr. Mitchell A. Byrd, of the Virginia Byrds (e.g. Admiral Byrd).  

Fisherman Island is located at the eastern end of the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel, connecting Norfolk, Virginia to the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake Bay.  It’s an ideal place for finding all sorts of birds, as long as you are prepared to fight off the dreaded Eastern Shore mosquitoes.  Eastern Shore mosquitoes don’t fly.  They take taxis!  Mosquitoes, chiggers, ticks - they’re all part of the bargain if you want to study wildlife biology in eastern Virginia.

Doug was also a Biology grad student, and we were working with Dr. Byrd.  The purpose of the trapping and banding was to be able to track the movements and migration patterns of these birds. The live trap looked like a ring of metal, divided in two halves, connected by hinges and a spring.  Looped onto the rim of the trap was a green net of soft twine or plastic.  The pigeon’s feet were carefully (and gently) tethered to a metal disc in the center of the trap.  Should a hawk swoop down to take the bait, Doug would pull a cord to snap the trap shut on the unsuspecting hunter.  Generally, the pigeon remained unscathed (though not particularly sympathetic to the cause of wildlife conservation). 

Now, back to our story: I was in a similar blind not far away.  We had all started together in the same blind.  But Doug, a native of Norfolk and an experienced bird trapper, and Professor Dr. Mitchell A. Byrd, Ph.d., had ceded the blind to me because nothing was happening, and they were getting bored.  I was  the new guy, so I got to babysit the more unproductive location.  “Come and get us if you need some help!”.

So, off they went, leaving me to my own devices.  I knew the theory of how this was supposed to work, but never had experienced the operation in practice. So I cracked open a cold Coke and a bag of Fritos, and made myself as comfortable as possible, given the heat, humidity, and parasites.

In order to make this work, you have to keep an eye out for movement in the sky.  When you see something, you pull on the string that is connected to the pigeon’s foot, so that it flops around as if it was injured - a tasty morsel.  Twenty minutes, half an hour, an hour...I don’t remember how much time passed, before I thought I saw a speck circling over the marsh.  I got my pigeon moving.  The speck came closer and grew larger. It circled closer.  Long tail, wings in a shallow V, conspicuous white patch at the base of the tail...a Marsh Hawk!  Come on baby.  Come to mama.  Got a nice hot lunch for ya.

Marsh Hawk

He swooped in and landed next to the pigeon, checking it out.  Closer...a little closer...SNAP!  The trap sprang over him.  What a great feeling!  Touchdown!  Basket! Home Run!  A moment of ecstasy, followed by one of terror.  “Now, what do I do?”  OK, Norm.  You can do this.  The one thing you’ve got going for you is your willingness to humiliate yourself.

Getting the Marsh Hawk out of the netting, while simultaneously keeping him from flying away, and not getting stabbed by one of his needle sharp talons, is no small feat. Birds of prey aren’t accustomed to using their sharp beaks as weapons the way that smaller birds do.  Their weapon is their talons. The trick is to reach underneath the trap with both hands, secure his wings by holding them closely to his body with both hands, and slide him out from under the trap with his talons away from you.  Careful, careful....done!

So there I was, both hands occupied holding a very nervous Marsh Hawk - about 18 inches long from beak to tail, with a wingspan of about 45 inches.  Now what??!!

Well. I might as well go down and show my prisoner to Dr. Byrd and Doug.  They’ll know what to do.  So I trekked through the dunes to the other blind, about five minutes away.  

-  “Hey, Guys!”

-  “What?”

-  “What do I do now?”

Curiously, they came rattling out of the blind.  Their jaws dropped!

That was all we trapped that day.  The hawk was banded and released, no harm done.  And Yours Truly rode off into the sunset.  Miller Time!  

Every evening, at 5 PM, without fail, Dr. Byrd insisted it was “Happy Hour”.  Sometimes, a few of us grad students would assemble at Dr. Byrd’s home to sip on his favorite libation - Chivas Regal.  I’m sure I deserved it that day.

It’s hard to believe that it’s been more than 30 years since that day on Fisherman Island.   

And Dr. Mitchell A. Byrd is now Director Emeritus of the Center for Conservation Biology at William & Mary.  Doug Davis, last I heard anyway, was working for the US Army Corps of Engineers as an Environmental Biologist.  But that was a long time ago.

I completed my Bald Eagle research, and got my MA in 1980.  The only job I ever got in the field was as a volunteer, re-introducing captive-bred Peregrine Falcons into the wild, on Great Fox Island, Virginia in the Chesapeake Bay not far from Crisfield, Maryland.  

Ten months later, I came to Israel on the Sherut La’Am volunteer program.  I volunteered for a while with Dr. Yossi Leshem at Beit Sefer Sede Har Gilo.  He headed the Israel Raptor Information Center at the time, and was studying Lappet-Faced Vultures in the Negev. Then I volunteered with Misrad HaPenim for a while, working to encourage research on the upper Jordan River.  

And that, my friends, was the end of my biology career.

Now that I live in Israel, I keep talking to myself about getting over to the Kfar Etzion Field School to do some guided bird watching.  The main problem is that my Hebrew is so embarrassing.  Really have to get over that one, though.

Dr. Byrd is about 88 years old now.  I haven’t seen him since the day I left Williamsburg, Virginia in 1982.  One of the last things he said to me was “We’re going to miss your curly little head around here.”  I’ve tried to contact him several times in recent years, to let him know how grateful I am for those years I spent with him at W & M, but I have never heard back from him.  Perhaps he’s too busy, not interested, doesn’t really have anything to say, or simply doesn’t remember me.  Or maybe the Chivas Regal has taken its toll ! But it makes me happy to think about him.

What a trip I’ve had through life.  So many different goals and experiences, seemingly unrelated.  Were they all dead ends, or necessary pieces in the jigsaw puzzle?  I have tons more snapshot memories like this one, and I just don’t know how they all fit together. 

Is everyone somewhat overwhelmed by the journeys life has taken?

Or is it just me?

Cousin Harry

Cousin Harry, A"H, was quite a character.  

Actually, he was not really my cousin.  He was my wife’s cousin.  My Father-in Law’s first cousin.  Harry Lyons was married twice, but never had children of his own.  

Harry grew up in Lexington, Virginia toward the end of the 19^th century, and during the beginning of the 20^th, along with my Father-in-Law, Sidney Lyons, A"H.  Harry went into Dentistry, and made quite a name for himself.  He was at one point the President of the American Dental Association (you know, the ones that put their seal of approval on toothpaste.  Remember those old Crest commercials?), and he was also the Dean of the Dental School of the Medical College of Virginia.  There is a whole building named after him there.  A true Virginia Gentleman (not the Bourbon).  

His sister Tillie ,A"H, by the way, became the first female Dentist in Virginia.  That was during WWI, when all the men were off in Europe.  My daughter, Tova, is named after Cousin Tillie, whose Yiddish name was Toba.  As you can imagine, Harry had his own ideas about things, and he was kind of stubborn, although always a gentleman.  He was driving his Cadillac (always a Cadillac) well into his nineties before he was finally convinced to turn in his wheels.

I do not remember the first time I met Harry.  It was probably sometime between the time my wife and I were engaged, and when we were married.  I liked him immediately.  And he liked me.  But neither of us would admit it.  It was that kind of relationship.  He would get on my case about my beard, my religious tendencies, and my dog.  As a Dental School Dean, he did not approve of beards.  Very unsanitary.  Religiously, he was Reform, if anything, but very supportive of Israel.  In fact, he went over several times in the early days of the State to help them set up standards for dentistry.  

To give an example of how our relationship worked, I once called him up on the phone for some reason, maybe just to say hello.   When he answered I said, “Hi Harry.  This is the person in the world you like the least”.  Without missing a beat, he cheerfully replied, “Oh, hello Norman!”

Harry did not mind the dog until our first son was born, and therein lies a tale.

Like I said, Harry never had children of his own.  When my wife was carrying our first child, Harry told us that if we had a son and named him Harry, he would give us a million dollars.  Now, understand that Harry was not just whistling Dixie.  He actually had the wherewithal to carry out such a gesture.  I believe that he was serious, but at the same time making it sound just enough like a joke to give him some wiggle room.  I just could not see my way clear to follow through.  Harry?  For my son?  For money?  Fortunately, my wife felt the same way.

Shortly after our son was born (David), we received a note from Harry with a check enclosed.  The check was made out for one million dollars, but was not signed.  The enclosed note said that if we had named him Harry, the check would have been signed!  I wish we had saved that note!

Nevertheless, we remained close.  Since we lived in Charlottesville, Virginia at the time, and he lived in Richmond, we would exchange visits.  He and Tillie (who lived in Oregon with her son) were worried about having a dog around the baby.  They were very sweet.

Of course, they are both gone now, along with that great generation of Southern Jews who achieved incredible success in the first half of the 20^th century.  I have done some reading about this, and it is truly a remarkable history that most of us “New Yawkas” are completely ignorant of.

I often think about Harry, and his million-dollar offer.  After years of paying Yeshiva tuition, I am sure it would have come in handy.  But mostly, I just miss him.

The real question I ask myself is: if I had accepted the offer and named my son Harry, what would that have meant about me?  Who would I have been?  Who would my son have been?  Would I now have the outstanding Daughter-in-law that I have now, and my one in a million (no pun intended) Grandchildren?

From my learning in Chasidus, I have extracted some understanding about the nature of the choices we make.  I’m talking about choosing, not selecting.  Selecting is what you do in the supermarket – Cheerios or Grape Nuts.   I had a decision to make about who I was, and who I wanted to be, and who I wanted my son to be.  I realized some time ago, while learning the Baal HaTanya’s Iggeres HaTshuva, that there is only one power in the world that can stand against the will of God.  That power is our bechira, our ability to choose.  No other creation has this ability to choose.  Not one.  This may be the essence of the meaning of being created betzelem Elokim (in the image of God).

The obvious derivative of this is that no choice is trivial.  So, back more than 30 years ago, when my guts wouldn’t let me take money to name my child, that choice created a koach in the world – a Malach (angel) perhaps – that has had a ripple effect not only for me, but for generations.  It’s scary to think what would have been if I had chosen otherwise.  And I had no idea at the time what the ramifications could be.  

How many times have I chosen poorly, and what could have been different?

There’s no way of knowing, but I wonder all the same.

Or is it just me?

Churban

I lost a friend today.

No, it wasn't due to an attack, or an accident, or an illness.

And I mourn.

I mourn because something I loved was snatched from me, because I didn't meet some unrealistic expectations.

I mourn for a ripening cluster of grapes that withered on the vine because they were purple, and the vine insisted they be green.

Could there be a "better" time for a tangible reason to mourn, than the three weeks between the 17th of Tammuz, and Tisha B'Av?

The Churban, the destruction, of the Beit HaMikdash - it is not the building that we mourn the loss of  - it is the relationship with God that evaporated before our eyes.  That is something worth mourning.

The adult child of a friend of mine was recently burned out of her home.  Only her most cherished belongings were saved.  She does not mourn.  What was lost were "things".  Despite the disruption, difficulty, and expense - only "things" were lost.  Her family is with her.  Her friends are with her. God is with her.  He has not increased His distance, or hidden His face.

We mourn during this time for the loss of relationship, not the loss of a building.

I have heard from many people that they are having challenges in relationships during this three week period.  How we deal with those challenges may determine the length of our spiritual exile.

I tried to speak to the Creator.  It was hard, and strange.  But I heard the answer.  The answer was:
"Be grateful for the rebuke".

Rebuke is a powerful pathway toward humility.  Someone once said "sometimes he needs a good kick in the pants with his orange juice in the morning".   True rebuke comes out of love.  So through the rebuke, I know that the Creator is trying to wake me up, to fix me.  Because it's important to Him.

Thank you, HaShem, for rebuking me.

But I also ask You, exactly what is it that I'm being rebuked for?  My list of shortcomings is long.

And I still mourn.  And maybe that's the lesson.  Maybe to mourn properly for the loss of the greater connection, I need to feel the loss of a lesser connection?  For that, I am grateful, because I've said in the past that we have too much mourning in our yearly cycle.  Maybe that was my mistake.  I don't know.  But this will be on my mind on Tisha B'Av.  Maybe the tears will come. I will be disappointed if they don't.

I ask why it is that there are people that demand so much - that keep an itemized list of who owes them what - a rigid standard of what is required of friendship?

I heard Rabbi Zev Leff speak over Pesach.  Something he said has stuck with me.  He said that some people have a pre-conceived notion of how Moshiach will come.  So much so, that if Moshiach comes in some other way, they will refuse to recognize it.  He said that Moshiach will come in a manner of his own choosing, and it is up to us to relinquish our rigid notions of the manner of his arrival.

So, I want to say to my friends and family, that I cherish you.  Not for who I want you to be, but for who you are. And I am grateful that you accept me, warts and all, for exactly who I am.  Friendship depends on forgiveness, for we usually let each other down in one way or another.

To be unable to forgive, is to choose exile over redemption.

Or is it just me?

From Hallel to Hallel

בס״ד

So much has been going on, and I've had so much stuff going round and round in my head.  Maybe that's why I've been taking so many naps lately.

A 13 year-old girl, Hallel Yaffa Ariel, who loved to dance and who wrote beautifully about emunah*, was butchered in her bed in Kiryat Arba by a hate-trained,17 year-old Arab terrorist/murderer.  Her grand-mother is a friend and neighbor of ours.  We have met the family and had meals with them when they have visited in Efrat.  We even went to their vineyard and picked grapes earlier this year.

The murderer's Mother called him a "hero".

Then of course there's the political farce going on in the US Presidential campaign.

There's also our vacillating, indecisive Israeli government.

Then there's the ongoing work of overcoming my many shortcomings, and trying to find my place as a Jew.  I've started working - in actually a volunteer capacity - at the Emunah Center.  It's run by Rav Dror Moshe Cassouto - kind of a rebel Breslover Chasid.  He is baal tshuvah*, learned intensely with Rav Aroush for 12 years.  He has the ability to express the essence of having faith, and he cuts through a lot of the trappings and chumrahs* that can prevent a real connection to God.

Rav Dror’s approach is very attractive in that he de-emphasizes chumrahs while reminding us of the centrality of mitzvos*.  This is also appealing to a lot of non-Jews who are used to approaching God through faith.  Intellectuality is secondary to emunah.  In most of the frum world, learning is praised while faith and midos are expected to stem from that. I’m not completely convinced of either path.

So, I'm approaching this cautiously but getting a lot out of it as well.  Not becoming a groupie, but filtering the message for nuggets of gold.  There is something I need in there.  

I experienced an amazing Yom Ha'atzmaut this year. I was witness to and participated in the most pristine Hallel* ever.  A true outpouring of praise for and gratitude to the Creator for the miracle that we live every day - to be Jews in our Land.  Every other Hallel in my life pales before it.

That's the kind of "worship" I would like to have a lot more of.  I have no motivation to doven in shul except that I'm supposed to.

We're now on the slippery slope to Tisha B'Av, and I don't know how I'm going to get through it.  I need a lot more Yiddishe nachas* from my relationship with the Creator.  Misery does not bring me any closer, and I have consciously chosen Simcha* as the path for me.  Our religion has taught us very well how to be miserable, but we're pathetic at joy.  That's why, only after 64 years, I experienced true praise and thankfulness as Israeli Jews celebrated a miracle about which most of Orthodoxy says "Feh !”.

So I struggle with that.  There won't be any kinos* for me this year.  I haven't decided what I'm going to do.  My usual schedule is to sleep for as much of the day as possible.  This year, I might just find a nice secluded place and sing songs, and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine, and be grateful that I am able to do such a thing on Tisha B'Av.  That's what we really need to do - be grateful.

So from Yom Ha'Atzmaut until now, I have travelled from Hallel to Hallel.  From a Hallel of true praise resembling the Simchas Bais HaShoeiva*, to the murder of Hallel Yaffa Ariel in Kiryat Arba, 20 minutes from my home, and 5 minutes from the kever that Avraham Avinu purchased for his wife Sarah, a few thousand years ago.

My daughter Tova and her husband Dovid are teaching their 20 month-old daughter, Raqueli, not to whine.  One day she started to whine, and then stopped herself and said "no whining" while she shook her little finger back and forth.

The other day she said "no crying", but Tova told her it's OK to cry.  She still wasn't clear on the difference, because she later said "I crying" when she wasn't.  She meant that she was crying on the inside.

It's OK to cry, even on the inside.  But whining seems to be what really got us into trouble on Tisha B'Av.  We whined because of our failure to appreciate Eretz Yisrael.  So this year, if I want to cry, I will.  If I want to sing, I will. But I'm not going to whine.  And I will be grateful.

Rav Dror says that waiting for Moshiach is stupid.  You go out and perfect yourself and your world to the best of your ability, and tell Moshiach you're not going to sit around waiting for him to change the world so you can be happy.  You're going to make yourself happy by changing what is in your hands to change.  And Moshiach is welcome to come whenever he is ready.

As Yul Brynner said in The Ten Commandments, “So let it be written, so let it be done”.

Or is it just me?







* Glossary:
emunah - faith
chumrahs- stringencies
midos - character traits
simcha - joy
mitzvos - commandments
baal tshuvah - someone who becomes religious
nachas - satisfaction
Simchas Bais HaShoeiva - water-drawing celebration in Temple times
frum - religious
Hallel - a service of praise on holidays
kinos - liturgical laments