Tekiah Gedolah

Still recovering from my post Yom Kippur gluttony, I awoke early to read the New York Times and came upon an article on Mark Zuckerberg and Marc Benioff, two Jewish techno-billionaires, blowing the Shofar. The digital version of the article featured a video of the Zuckerberg, in his ubiquitous long-sleeve tee shirt, blowing the shofar at home while an unseen child wailed in the background.  (https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/17/style/marc-zuckerberg-blowing-shofar.html)

Like the Shofars (Shofarim? Shofarot?) used in my synagogue during recent High Holyday services, Zuckerberg’s Shofar appeared to be approximately four-feet long, it’s length far exceeding the length of his left arm which held it in place. At our synagogue, we had four men (although I do not believe any of them were techno-billionaires) with equally elongated Shofars serenading us with Tikiahs, Shivarims, and Truahs from different parts of the sanctuary.  The coordinated blowing was orchestrated to create a dramatic impact on the Rosh Hashanah worship. Unfortunately, it also confused the more senior members of the congregation.  All around me, octogenarians were seen adjusting their hearing aids. 

My friend Sandy turned to me and commented “I don’t remember Shofars being so long”.  Certainly, that was my memory.  Shofars used to be of the 10-inch variety, carved with small notches along their edges. Shofars today all seem to be in the 3 – 4-foot helix variety - far cries from the diminutive size of our youths. 

What also seems to have become elongated is the “T’kiah G’dolah” – the final blast of the Shofar in each cycle on Rosh Hashanah and at the end of Nelah, the concluding service on Yom Kippur.  In my synagogue, it is not unusual for the T’kiah G’dolah to last 30 seconds or more, causing the blower’s face to turn a brilliant shade of red.  I am concerned that one of them will have an aneurysm.

While I recognize that, to paraphrase, Freud, ‘sometimes a shofar is just a shofar’, to my thinking, the growth of elongated shofars and the final blasts of T’Kiah G’dolah, marks the rise of “Macho Judaism”, where men demonstrate their virility and alpha dominance, within the of context our Jewish rituals.  These are, in fact, “the Days of Awe”.

Another demonstration of Macho Judaism seems to be the “Hagbai” clean and jerk.  Each year select men are called upon to demonstrate their vitality by lifting the Torah after the reading has been completed.  The contestants demonstrate their strength and skill by seeing how many sections of the Torah they can unravel before the lift.  I believe the requirement is three, but, this never seems to suffice.  Seven or eight will ensure a positive murmur.  I do admire these kosher strong men but also worry that a slight misstep will require all of us to fast for 40 days.  I have nightmares of unrelenting caffeine withdrawal headaches. During these moments during the service, I was contemplating the need for a new pharmaceutical product “Jewagra”, to enable men to keep their horns and scrolls aloft longer.  Jars of Alex Jones’s “Super Male Vitality” supplements might also do the trick.  I added an additional “Al Chet” (“For the Sin”) for these wayward thoughts. 

My synagogue is fully egalitarian, and women participate in all aspects of the service.  But, in the 12 years I have been a member (and, perhaps, for the 60 years or so I have been attending synagogues), I have never seen a woman called to blow the shofar or lift the Torah.  Women in our country join the Marines, are fighter pilots and serve as police officers and firefighters around the world.  One would think they have the capacity to blow a shofar and lift a Torah.

The High Holy Days have passed, and Sukkot is upon us.  Around the world, Jewish men will be hoisting long stalks of bamboo atop our booths.  At our synagogue, the men will sanctify the holiday with “Cigars and Scotch in the Sukkah”. While I admire the alliteration, as a non-meat eater and non-smoker, I will demure. Don’t get me started on the Lulav.  Sometimes a palm frond is just a palm frond.   

Thoughts on Turning 65

Vitiligo sounds as if it could be either an exotic sexual act or the language of vitamins. Since, I am the author of this treatise, it cannot be the former, as I have no awareness of the like.  The latter assumes that C has the capacity to communicate with D, K and friends.  If this was the case, what would they say? “Nice job on scurvy?”

In fact, vitiligo is a dermatologic condition causing the loss of pigment on areas of skin. I first discovered that I had this ailment when visiting a dermatologist for an entirely different condition.  He deemed my other complaint to be “boring” but, at seeing patches of white under my arms he exclaimed “now that’s interesting” and diagnosed the condition.  As a side note here, “that’s interesting” is not an utterance one welcomes hearing from a physician. 

In my world of metaphorical thinking, vitiligo was a clear sign that I was fading away. 

Clearly, there is much that is lost and gained in aging. Hair comes to mind.  In this regard, I have fared better than some.  Although, I have come to postulate that there is a direct inverse relationship between the hairs on your head and those in your ears; as one diminishes, the other multiplies.  Perhaps it has to do with the physical law regarding the conservation of matter.  But, it has become clear to me that, as one ages, the term “getting a haircut” becomes increasingly expansive in its definition and, quite literally, covers greater territory.

Teeth also seem to come to mind. To my great regret, having eschew the genetic blueprints for my father’s good looks and athletic proclivities, I instead inherited his disposition to gum disease.  I am a poster child in this regard.  To be fair, the loss of bone tissue along with abutting teeth have been nicely replaced with implants that, when x-rayed, make my skull look like a being out of an early James Cameron movie.  And while no one will ever confuse me with Arnold Schwarzenegger, I do share a birth date with another highly-regarded action star – Mr. T.  Who knows, perhaps we were switched at birth.

Continuing along our list of losses, I am missing a sliver of my meniscus and I also have no spleen.  The missing spleen was removed 35 years ago to address an idiopathic blood disorder.  Idiopathic is a medical term for “we haven’t a clue”.  The absence of this organ has not had any long term deleterious impact, although to paraphrase Dracula: “the night is still young”.  I am reminded of the one about the difference between a Jewish pessimist and a Jewish optimist.  Says the pessimist: “Things are terrible, they can’t possibly get worse”.  The optimist: “Things are terrible, but they can always get worse.”  Where were we? Ah, the missing spleen; the one significant impact has been my being more susceptible to infections.  Thus, my physician’s insistence that my annual check-ups be accompanied by inoculations to a broad array of infectious diseases, some of which haven’t seen the light of day since the Boer Wars.  

On the gains side, my daily morning and evening hygiene regimen have swelled to a good 20 minutes.  Brushing, flossing, water picking and antihistamine nose spray now fill the evenings in morning periods once reserved for intimacy or extra sleep.  I have regained some of this lost sleep by initiating a routine of daily meditation – which is like sleep but much more fashionable.

Additionally, people tell me that I haven’t lost my sense of humor.  I am not sure, however, that they consider this a compliment.

I could go on.  However, in assessing our lives, the essential metric is not what we have lost and gained but who.  The loss of my father was, in the context of my life and my identity, definitional.  My cousin Jonathan’s death reframed core values and my world view. So many others as well; Bobby Bauer, who in high school was the best of us; my cousin, Stuart whose occasional bluster obfuscated his profound kindness and humanity. My Father in law Hal whose passion for social justice and his care for all people was unmatched.

But I have been blessed with so many personal gains; all encapsulated in six words: A remarkable family and dear friends. The rest is commentary. 

5777 Parts A and B

The Jewish year of 5777 will bring forth my 65^th birthday. Thus, as Rosh Hashanah approaches I contemplate many things; what is truly important, how do we frame our core values; what is life’s true meaning; what Medicare plan should I sign up for?  Medicare is our nation’s way of saying that growing old does have its benefits; and it is time to schedule your next colonoscopy. 

As I contemplate the days ahead, I’ve been reading about mindfulness, have begun meditating and attempting to live more in the moment.  This, I find, is a perfect framework for my complete lack of short term memory.

I am also coming to peace with all I have hoped to accomplish and perhaps what may now be beyond my grasp.  For instance, I am now fully at peace that no matter what I do, I will never be able to fold a fitted sheet.

I have begun taking yoga and, to date, I hate it.  I often feel like a downward facing dog, and thus I see no reason for me to assume a position of such.  Let’s be honest, I’m in it for the spandex.

I reflect on my life and think about the choices I have made.  In wistful moments, I wish I had flossed more regularly.

But Rosh Hashanah reminds us that “Hayom Harat Olam” “Today is the birthday of the world”.  My sense is that the rabbis hadn’t concluded that this is, in fact, the day the big bang occurred 5,777 years ago.  Rather, I’d like to think that they are reminding us that every year, and on every day, we have the opportunity to recreate the world anew.  It is a compelling message of hope and opportunity.  At every age, in every time, new opportunities await us to find meaning, to make a difference, to enrich our lives and the lives of others.

Few experiences opened my eyes to the glorious possibilities and potential that lie in our collective future than Nomi and Keith’s wedding this past summer.  The weekend gathering of friends and family concluding with the wedding ceremony and freilich celebration that followed was a joyous affirmation of love, hope and faith.  Read more at http://draphael-emuse.blogspot.com/2016/09/nomi-and-keiths-wedding.html. 

As always, my family continues to anchor me and ground me. In moments of darkness thinking of them frames my life with joy and meaning.  Alya will spend Sukkot with us, and can’t wait to recreate memories of her childhood by making chains out of construction paper.  She is now using her science background, her skill in communications and her overall extraordinary competency and thoughtfulness as part of an innovative digital marketing team focusing on health and medical related firms. Esteban is a lead professional at a firm that creates customized DNA for research and pharmaceutical purposes.  He promises me that there are ample safeguards in place to prevent a dystopian future.  Nomi continues her studies at the University of Maryland School of Social Work and thinks about working with inner city children and building community gardens.  Keith teaches music at the Friends School and the Baltimore School of Rock.  Jacob is working in a local movie theater, and, on off hours, focusing on his writing and building a wonderful social network of friends.

Jo continues her work at the Epstein School as the counselor for the younger grades and her mixture of kindness, thoughtfulness and strength are a gift to children and families.

I remain the Executive Director of Boston University Hillel, a position that brings together extraordinary opportunity and, at times, overwhelming challenges. Working in Boston and living in Atlanta is difficult and, as a long-term life choice probably makes little sense.  So, life decisions lie in the near future.

The great joy of Nomi and Keith’s wedding in July was followed by difficult doldrums of August when work challenges seemed to wash over me in waves.  During stressful and painful weeks I was so bless to be able to reach out to dear friends and family for counsel and comfort. 

These are the great blessings, the great gifts that God has given me.  I am thankful to all of you who have and who continue to enrich my life in so many ways.

May you have a happy, sweet, healthy and meaningful new year.

Life in the Slow Lane

In the first week in my tenure as interim director of Hillel at Boston University I walked to Best Buy to cruise the Labor Day sale.  Students and parents rushed through the aisles of Best Buys snatching up air conditioners, iPad, TV’s and stereos.  A small microwave oven for $54.00 beckoned me as did a flat screen TV for $189.  But I demurred.  A simpler life beckoned me.

My small one bedroom apartment on Bay State Road is the definition of Spartan functionality.  It has all I need but very little more.  In the days ahead I will return to my well-furnished and provisioned home in Atlanta but here in Boston, life is much simpler. I have two double beds, one love seat, three chairs, two bar stools, two end tables, coffee table and a 6x8 rug.  I have a set of four each of dishes, eating utensils, mugs and glasses.  I have, as of yet only used two of the dishes, one of the bowls and one of the coffee mugs.  Oddly, I have managed without my precious expresso machine.  I have yet to do the laundry, but when I do I will fill my pockets with quarters and trek downstairs to the washer and dryer, which shares a small room with the buildings boiler. 

Everything takes a bit longer.  I make stir fry for dinner.  In the absence of a microwave oven I boil the rice.  Impossibly, it takes 6 minutes rather than one.  There is no dishwasher and so I wash each dish, utensil, pot and glass by hand.  I sweep the small kitchen floor and hand wipe it with a spray cleaner and a small rag.  That deliberate quality of life is pleasant; perhaps, functionally meditative; slow down, embrace the quieter moments. 

Without a Boston-based car, I walk everywhere.  Trader Joe’s is a 20 minute stroll as is Whole Foods.  The walk over is pleasant.  The returning walk with hands filled with groceries a bit less so. The dry cleaner is four blocks, the drug store six.  My commute to Hillel is a 10 minute walk.  I discovered that my iPhone is tracking my steps and I am averaging about 12,000 a day – about 4 miles. 

I sit on a park bench along the Charles River and watch sleek shells with determined rowers glide by.  I walk along Beacon Street admiring the beautiful Victorian era row houses.  I rent a bicycle and pedal to Harvard Square buy a used book and read while sipping coffee.  After a long, difficult day at work I grab a bottle of light beer, head into the bedroom (the only air conditioned room in the apartment) sit on an old office chair, place my feet on the bed, my computer on my laps and watch a movie on Netflix on the 14 inch screen.  It seems overly indulgent.

Perhaps the simpler life will get old soon.  I will long for the convenience of a microwave; the comfort of the full size leather sofa in my den, the convenience of a car and the mindless pleasure of a large flat screen TV.  But a quieter, simpler life has its pleasures.  These pleasures are all in the moment – and none are taken for granted.  It seems to me that is a core message for Rosh Hashanah; enjoy life in the moment for the simple pleasures it offers.  In the absence of the layers of possessions that surround us we become more attuned to gentle joys of God’s creation; trees, a soft breeze, new and old friends, our loved ones.  Among those great pleasure is our own journeys of thought, imagination and wonder.  Today is the birthday of the world, enjoy.

Apples Honey and Augie the Doggie

Generally speaking, other than a honey stained necktie and some extra pounds, I carry little of sustaining residue from indulging in apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah.  Clearly it is yummy but, without question, there is a quality of magical thinking to this custom and belief that eating apples and honey will advance happiness in the year to come.  The same can be said of Tashlich[1] where we presume that tossing stale Cheerios or Wheat Thins into the Chattahoochee or Charles absolves us of our past misdeeds.  Thus, as the New Year approaches, I find myself thinking about Augie, or as we like to call him Augie the Doggie. 

Augie was irresistibly cute when we spied him a year ago at an adoption event; large brown eyes, oversized paws and an expression our son Jacob coined the “Sarah McLachlan face”, after the pathos oozing commercial for the ASPCA. And so we brought him home.  All seemed fine those first days; he was unusually docile, but we chalked that up to the pain medication he was taking for his broken tooth – acquired we learned when attempting to chew his way out of a metal cage.  And then we left him home alone. 

Upon returning, we couldn't quite figure out why large portions of his body were covered with white powder – until we spied the open pantry, whose contents, had been turned into a war zone with Cheerios, sugar, Wheat Thins and, of course, flour strewn all over the floor. 

Augie was dutifully locked up in a large dog cage for our next excursion out of the house.  Channeling Krypto, he bent the bars and broke out. And, in a display of profound industriousness, he ripped out all of the window screens, knocked down the accumulated knickknacks on our dining room hutch and relieved our bedroom wall of a framed lithograph.

More restrictive measures were called for and, as we headed out for a Saturday evening dinner with friends, we locked him in the downstairs bathroom; after all, what damage could he do.  Further demonstrating his destructive acumen, he ripped and ate through the dry wall, knocked a framed picture off the wall shattering its glass and chewed the ends of the vanity doors. 

We were about to give up.  Perhaps we had made a huge mistake.  We took him to the vet who told us about “Separation Anxiety” a common condition among rescue dogs.  He prescribed Prozac and guided us on how to build Augie’s trust and confidence by leaving him for very brief periods and gradually increasing the time away.  Astonishingly, I had found a pet more neurotic than I am. 

A year has passed since our house destruction ordeals.  Each morning begins with Augie jumping into our bed to announce the arrival of morning – and more importantly breakfast time.  His morning kibble is followed by Prozac wrapped in American cheese.  Whenever possible, Augie and I go hiking in Big Trees a local wooded preserve.  Off the leash, he follows close behind as we hike the trail, stopping to drink from the stream.  He sits at our feet as we read or watch television.  He is slowly transforming from a sullen, frightened pet to one that is becoming more outgoing and playful.  We say that he is “discovering his inner dog”.  Last month, for the first time, he chased a squirrel.  Unfortunately, my wife Jo happened to be attached via the leash at the time.  Caught totally off guard by this unexpected “dogged pursuit”, she took a nasty spill, broke a finger and a tooth and needed 5 stitches in her chin.  She is still in physical therapy.

What does this have to do with Rosh Hashanah and apples and honey? Here’s what we’ve learned from Augie the Doggy: The sweetness in life comes not from consuming or possessing things but in investing in, engaging and enjoying the company of others – humans and otherwise.  Psalms 133 teaches us:  “Hiney ma tov u’ma-nayim Shevet ach-im gam ya-chad”; "Behold, how good and how sweet it is for friends to sit together”.  The sweetness in life is in the company of others.  Thus, the question is not what will make this year sweet but who will. 

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[1] Tashlich: the custom where, on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, Jews cast some form of grain (e.g. bread, rice, Cheerios) upon flowing water, as a metaphorical representation of casting out one’s sins,