Tashlich Take Two

As Rosh Hashanah is “early” this year, I’ll be able to get on with the annual process of expiating my sins sooner.  Fortunately, this phenomenon of Jewish calendaring, precipitated by the aligning of lunar and solar years, also corresponds to the end of a rainy summer in the southeastern United States.  Rivers and streams will be flush, thus providing ample room for the trove of sins that will take the form of stale bread, challah and rice at Tashlich. 

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, has always struck me as a cop out.  That we can unburden ourselves, even metaphorically, by tossing week-old challah, stale Wheat Thins or Shredded Wheat, soon to be bound for the disposal in any event, into the waters just seems too easy.  We need something with more bite.  We need to up the ante.  Might we take the ritual tossing of sins more seriously if the stand-in we choose for them was more dear.  For instance, I’d imagine that we’d all be far more pious if, on the afternoon of the first day of Rosh Hashanah, we all were asked to toss our I Pads and I Phones in the water to account for our sins.  Parenthetically, this would work on multiple levels for Anthony Wiener.  (Gevalt, since the days of Vlad the Impaler, has there ever been a more fitting surname).

Inquisitively, I turned to Google, my chief source for spiritual guidance, and typed in the phrase: “the world’s most expensive bread”.  Topping this list was this entry:

Harrods, London’s premier department store, now carries a most luxurious loaf. Britain’s most expensive bread and, if you believe some of the hype surrounding it, the most expensive bread in the world, the Roquefort and Almond sourdough is created with some of the finest ingredients money can buy. The bread, recognized as Britain’s most expensive by the National Association of Master Bakers, will be sold at Harrods for £15 (US $24.50).”

That’s more like it.  At $25 a loaf I’d wager that we’d all be more conscientious about sinning.  Being the consummate capitalist (thus my lucrative Hillel career), I’m thinking that there may be a potential business growth opportunity in “Tashlich” wafers (the hard, flat shape will make tossing easier).  I’m thinking three variations: light, medium and heavy sins, the latter at a minimum of $500 for a box of 10, sold with the assumption that Jews dwelling in SuperMax prisons will have access to some form of flowing water and that Bernie Madoff has some remaining disposable income.

It’s hard for me to see how the act of throwing bread in the water can or should, in any manner, exculpate past bad actions.  Metaphorically casting out past misdeeds may make us feel better but it doesn’t do much for those we’ve ‘misdeeded’ against. Thus, with the operational assumption that the Days of Awe should not just be about mitigating past mistakes but impacting future actions, this coming Rosh Hashanah, I for one, plan on finding my way to the Chattahoochee River and attempt to cast some behaviors on the water.  As the Cheerios flutter through the air and then head downstream, I’ll resolve to make a sincere effort to be less aggressive when I drive and more patient in Trader Joe’s when the customer in front of me brandishes a checkbook.  I’ll click ‘save’ instead of ‘send’ upon completing that snarky email, and will think more charitable thoughts of the parents of the screaming toddler in seats 17 C and D two rows behind me on my flight to the coast.  And literally and metaphorically, I’ll share my bread more often and more graciously so that when Tashlich rolls around next year, I’ll have less, also literally and metaphorically, to toss upon the waters.

Dixlexia, Dslexia, Dyslexia

I turned 60 this year, a notable accomplishment marked by great family joy, personal self-reflection and an accelerated schedule of colonoscopies. In the world of numbers, while 59 was a prime year, that is one that can only be divided by one and itself, 60 lends itself multiple divisions (30X2; 15X4; 5X12…..). Thus, these past months have provided me with an opportunity to divide my years and look at my life in stages or segment; for example, those spent single and those spent married, and those spent without children and those spent with.  And without question, the second halves of these life stages have been far more rich, rewarding and meaningful than the first.  On this coming Jewish New Year, as we collectively reflect on the years that have passed and plan for those to come, I send my wishes that each segment your life that awaits you is richer, more meaningful and more filled with peace and joy.

In this context of life and its segments, I ponder another division in my life and reflect that the second thirty years of being a dyslexic have been much more pleasant than the first. Two words, two glorious, life-altering words that have brought me from great darkness into light and from despair to destiny account for this life transformation. Those words; ‘spell check’[1].

Spell check has transformed my dyslexia from a real disability to more of a nuisance. I continue to reverse numbers, mistake my left foot for my right and compensate for my continued writing challenges by limiting my hand-written communications to brief, terse messages: “Hello – am fine, David”. I have come to delight in dyslexic jokes, my favorites being the “dog” “god” variety e.g., “Untied Church of Dog” and the one about the paranoid dyslexic who always has the unsettling feeling that he is following somebody.

I have come to understand that the vestiges of my dyslexia have left an imprint on my worldview, my weltanschauung, (bless you spell check) that provides for and, perhaps, encourages perceiving the world in a different way – reversing things, turning things around. That in a wink of an eye we can transform ‘god’ into ‘dog’ is perhaps a good thing. God and our understanding of God is now available for further reflection, for reshaping and rethinking. That one may have the unsettling feeling that he is following somebody is a good thing. Our world would be a profoundly better and more peaceful place if collectively we were more reflective about whom we are following and who we venerate as leaders and heroes. Political and social change represents the “dyslexic-ing” of the social or political order. In the sphere of science, in transposing space and time, Einstein demonstrated that he was, perhaps, greatest dyslexic of all.

We dyslexics see a world that is slightly different and sometimes a bit mixed up. We are, at times, a confused lot, reversing numbers, mistaking our left foot for our right and, of course, advancing new innovations in spelling. But our message that reality, or at least our perceptions of reality, can be plastic, that we have the capacity to reverse and reorder our understanding of our worlds is a good thing – perhaps, a necessary thing.

The upcoming High Holy Days call for all of us to be open to dyslexic-like reflective flexibility. What/who is our God? What does God ask us to believe? How does God guide us to act? How does our God enable us to live a life of meaning, a life that makes sense? Who are we following? What values do these individuals advance? Is the organization, the city, the nation, and the world that they envision and that they seek to build one where people are treated with greater humanity or one where peace and harmony can reign?

In the coming year of 5773 let’s celebrate the dyslexics around us and the dyslexics within us and, together, use this capacity to see the world in different ways and to create a better world together.

Love and best wishes for a happy, sweet, healthy, and slightly altered 5773.

[1] It is little known that initial development of the algorithms that power spell check go back to the 1960’s and the research at Stanford University headed by ‘Les Earnest’, a computer programmer with a name more fitting for a politician. Les’s research came to fruition with Word Star and Word Perfect on the first IBM and IBM clones in the early 1980’s. 

All is Revealed - Ode to Being Sixty

Six months ago, on the morning before Rosh Hashanah, the tip of the middle finger on my left hand found itself crushed in the metal folds of our garage door. Once I was able to extract it by pushing the door upward I found the bottom of the finger nail protruding above the cuticle and blood dripping from what was once the nail bed.  At the urgent care center, a thoughtful and calming physician’s assistant calmly removed the remainder of the nail, placed three stitches and updated my tetanus antibodies while I assiduously looked the other way to avoid any glimpse of the digital carnage.  Six months later, the nail has finally fully grown back and, except for a vestigial numbness, that may or may not be permanent, the finger looks and acts normal.

At the end of February, I had the first in what will be a series of surgeries to install multiple dental implants in place of teeth ravaged by years of periodontal disease (a hereditary gift from my father – I would have preferred his good looks or his athletic abilities but apparently these were recessive genes.)  Both this surgery and a second in late April caused weeks of remarkable pain and discomfort, as foods with any texture or the slightest positive or negative PH caused raw, exposed tissue to vigorously pronounce their disapproval.

About that time, a routine medical examination revealed a slightly depressed hemoglobin count.  Suspecting a leaky pipe, a surgical probe and then a miniature camera encased in a swallowable capsule explored my esophagus, stomach, small and large intestines.  Nothing unusual was detected and I am prone to believe that the only outcome of these procedures was that, to this day, a miniature camera is methodically snapping pictures from bowels of Atlanta’s waste disposal system. This was an unfortunate choice of words, but, nonetheless I will leave it for impact.

Other than being profoundly unpleasant, what these medical incidents have in common is that they each revealed a part of me that, under normal circumstances, remain hidden and protected.  Tips of fingers bereft of nails are not meant to be exposed to daily encounters and, in the absence of the protection of such nails, even the most basic functions, became painful and difficult.  My oral surgeries have reduces the simple act of eating from one of pleasure to opportunities for exposed tissues and nerves to be assaulted – say by a wayward clump of oatmeal or a grain of rice.  And as for the pill cam, cameras belong strapped around the neck not coursing through it.

These corporeal assaults brought back less than fond memories of surgery to remove my spleen thirty one years ago.  An idiopathic blood disease caused my platelet count to drop to 1/10 of the normal range and when several courses of steroids did no more than make me look like the latter life David Crosby, surgery to remove my spleen because the only treatment course.

For those who have not had major surgery, it is quite difficult to describe just how unpleasant it is.  Upon awakening from the anesthesia I was engulfed in pain.  Further, having all one’s midline muscles cleaved makes any movement; laughing, sitting up, drinking, waving your hand, both profoundly painful and difficult.  In the most absolute manner possible I had been opened up and thoroughly revealed.  There were no pretenses; no defenses; no hiding; no faking and certainly no cover ups.  “Hineni” – Here I am; Ecce Homo – behold; here is the man.  I had been fully and completely exposed; not only for the surgeons who sliced into by abdomen and rummaged through my entrails, but to the family members and hospital professionals who witnessed me at my weakest, most needy and most vulnerable.  These extraordinary individuals, most notably, Jo, my blessed bride (of just one month at that time), embraced me as I was and, with great love and devotion, nurtured me back to health and wholeness.

Here's the thing: “V” does not always stand for victory.  If there is a lesson here, it is that there will be a time in our lives when it will stand for “vulnerable”.  We will all be made raw with pain and heartbreak.  The deepest recesses of our bodies and souls will be revealed to others.  We will find ourselves helpless and, perhaps, hopeless. It will be at these moments when we allow ourselves to be open for all others to see and bared at the deepest and most profound levels that we will learn about humanity and about our own humanity.  With the love of others, we will heal and, while vestigial pains and grievous memories will remain, we will be stronger and wiser.  And, in the oddest way possible, life will be sweeter.

Scars and all, it is good to be sixty.  The alternative is far less appealing. I thank my family and friends for your companionship, love and support.  Be patient with me, I’m still figuring it out.

D'var Torah in Honor of my Father's 40th Yartzeit

Exodus 25

1 And the LORD spoke unto Moses, saying: 2 'Speak unto the children of Israel, that they take for Me an offering; of every man whose heart make him willing you shall take My offering. 3And this is the offering which ye shall take of them: gold, and silver, and brass; 4 and blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen, and goats' hair; 5 and rams' skins dyed red, and sealskins, and acacia-wood; 6 oil for the light, spices for the anointing oil, and for the sweet incense;

Family lore has it that Jacob Raphael, my grandfather who plied garlic from a pushcart on the Lower East Side, went to the docks one morning to pick up the daily supply, only to find that the boat hold had flooded and the entire cache of garlic was soaked and ruined. Liquidating his entire savings, he purchased the entire load of garlic for a fraction of its original cost, dried it, pulverized it and initiated his version of the American success story by selling powdered garlic. Thank me next time as you are enjoying your well seasoned pizza at Antico’s.

J. Raphael and Sons, importers, grinders and mixers of spices was thus born, the first small factory on Rivington Street on the Lower East Side followed by a larger plant in Williamsburg Brooklyn, in the shadow of the bridge that shares the same name. Jacob ran the business, as he did his family, with an iron fist and a permanently affixed scowl. Four sons tended to the details: Sam, the buying, Max the shipping and billing, Sidney the selling and Alvin, my father, the grinding, mixing and packaging.

Exodus 30

7 And Aaron shall burn thereon incense of sweet spices; every morning, when he dresses the lamps, he shall burn it. 8 And when Aaron lights the lamps at dusk, he shall burn it, a perpetual incense before the LORD throughout your generations.

Whether you arrived by car or via the M train that stopped at Marcy Avenue approximately a ¼ mile away you knew you were approaching the spice factory by the mélange of aromas- cinnamon, allspice, cloves, garlic and nutmeg. Walking up the stairs to the second floor of the aged red brick building one would find my father directing the grinding, mixing and packaging. Workers sauntered about in air diffused with spice dust - that fine mixture coated everything; windows, machinery, clothing and, in very short order, hair, faces and forearms. It is impossible to know whether the daily exposure to that airborne mixture was in anyway responsible for my father’s dying of cancer at the age of 49.

Kings 1: Chapter 10

1 And when the queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon because of the name of the LORD, she came to prove him with hard questions. 2 And she came to Jerusalem with a very great train, with camels that bore spices and gold very much, and precious stones;.

In the evening, in a small split level home in Bayside, Queens, it was the smell of cinnamon and allspice that first announced that his arrive and a small boy would run down the stairs to greet him at the screen door. Over 50 years later, that image of his smile, his spice encrusted clothing and, perhaps more than anything, the rich mixture of spice aromas remains so vivid.

Song of Songs Chapter 4

11 Thy lips, O my bride, drop honey-honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon.

16Awake, O north wind; and come. thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his precious fruits.

Fragrances can be so infused with emotional potency. I pass a jasmine tree on my daily Sandy Spring walks and suddenly am flushed with memories and images of Jerusalem. We visit an acquaintance at a hospital and, spurred on by the smells of antiseptics, painful memories of lost love ones wash over us. The odor of mildew brings us back to visits to long passed grandparents and elderly relatives.

As I light the havdolah candle and inhale the sweetness of the cloves a flicker of memory slips into consciousness; a cinnamon tinted man preparing compounds to flavor and sweeten our lives, and a young boy, standing by the screen door waiting for the first fragrant hints that his father has come home. The lid is closed, the candle is extinguished but the memory lingers.

"Blessed are you, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, creator of all kinds of spices"

Laws for Drinking Single Malt During Kiddush

Recently a trove of ancient Hebraic documents was found in Afghanistan. The following was among them: Tractate Buba Meitza: Laws for Drinking Single Malt During Kiddush

1. You shall not imbibe blended Scotch during Kiddush as it is an abomination.
2. You` shall not imbibe Scotch from a paper cup as it too is an abomination.
3. Twelve years shall Scotch be aged lest it taste cleave to your tongue in a wholly unpleasant manner not unlike Thanksgiving dinner with your in-laws.
4. He who drinks Scotch before the rabbi shall be called to do Hagbai for 40 consecutive weeks or until he is no longer capable of lifting a shot glass without significant nerve damage.
5. He who does not wash is glass after drinking Scotch is alike a heifer who shares his cud with others. His reward shall be a large and painful cold sore on his upper lip.
6. If you are drinking Scotch and cannot recall whether you have had one glass or two chances are you’ve had enough.
7. Rabbi Aburia used to say: “It is better to drink 15 year old Scotch with 12 friends than 12 year old Scotch with 15 friends. He who drinks 10 year old Scotch generally drinks alone.”
8. If you are immersed in the ritual bath and realize that the time has come for the drinking of single malt it is permissible to exit the bath. However, it is incumbent on you to don raiments lest your affiliation with the Jewish people become pronounced.
9. Until when may one drink single malt on Shabbat? Rabbi Pinchas states: “Until the kiddush egg salad fully consumed.” Rabbi Elihu the Flatulent replied: “Until the chulent of the siudah shelishi is fully expunged from the system.” Until his internment in the Betty Ford Clinic, Rabbi Chananaya would exclaim: “Until the recitation of Sheer Shel Yom on Thursday”.
10. If you are drinking Scotch and the messiah comes it is permissible to complete your drink before welcoming him. Given the circumstances, however, you may want to consider offering him a taste.
11. Rabbi Yechiel of Smirna and Rabbi Elchanan the Parsimonious were drinking Scotch during Kiddush. Rabbi Yechiel commented: “Verily, this Scotch has a palate that is less than fully pleasing. From whence it came?” Rabbi Elchanan replied: “It is the Kirkland Brand acquired while the rebbinsin was purchasing salmon at Costco”. With this, Rabbi Yechiel brought his Tikun down on Rabbi Yechiel’s head with great force causing an odd excretion to emit from his ear.

Top ten Patriarchal and Matriarchal recommendations for holiday trips and family reunions

10. Dream big
9. Prostrate yourself before your host.
8. Bring gifts such as two hundred she-goats and twenty he-goats, two hundred ewes and twenty rams, 16 thirty camels and their colts, forty and ten bulls and twenty she-asses and ten foals If this is not possible, consider an Amazon gift certificate.
7. Leave one child at home in case something goes wrong.
6. In a crunch, consider passing off your wife as your sister.
5. Carefully consider any proposal that involves painful surgery on an important appendage.
4. Be suspicious if the youngest child is missing and the older children are playing with a new Sony Playstation of unknown origin.
3. That’s not an angel your wrestling with it’s your brother in law. Let go of his ankle.
2. Double check your luggage before leaving.
1. As you leave, ignore the smell of burning flesh and don’t look back.

Reflections on my Tallis

My tallis seems to have a mind of its own. Upon entering the sanctuary and finding a seat, I dutifully remove it from its matching bag, unfold, wrap around my torso, find the approximate midpoint on each side – always left side first – and fold over each of my shoulders. Two minutes later one half of the tallis has become askew and waits to be refolded. Two minutes later the other side falls completely off. At least one time during the service I’ll step on a tzitzit causing me to grab onto my chair to prevent myself from falling on my wife or whoever is unfortunate enough to be sitting nearby. As the Shema draws near, I initiate the tzitzit hunt, knowing that, invariably, one of them will furtively bury itself behind my back or become entrenched in some hidden space between the seats. Where could it possibly be? It was there when I put it on. As the opening words of the Shema are intoned I frantically trace the ends of the cloth to each corner. The knotted threads are united and wrapped around my fingers in the nick of time: “and they shall make themselves fringes, (kiss) on the corners of their garments”. At the end of the Shema the insubordinate corners return to their hidden locations and the cycle of folding and falling begins anew. Having lost my tallis clips a week after my Bar Mitzvah, and being unprepared to invest in another pair of silver plated clips adorned with a garish Jewish star, there seems to be no salvation from this skirmish that doesn’t involve either crazy glue or push pins. At the end of the service, having completed the battle, I dutifully refold the tallis and return it to its matching bag – only to have one or more tzitzit get caught in the zipper, precipitating a drawn out struggle to free it from clenched metal jaws.

It is for these reasons that I am now working with a small, elite technology team to create the first ever IPhone tallis app. While I have yet to fully vet the device with religious authorities, I am hopeful that it will meet all, if not a few of the halachic requirements. For everyday use, with the iphone in full operating mode, the tallis app will provide downloadable prayers (both in Hebrew and in transliteration) for donning the tallis, along with a web link to the full Sacharit service, torah portions and a bagel calorie counter. At a small extra cost, gps locators can be placed on each tzitzit for easy location as the Shema approaches. Carefully camouflaged earphones allow you to listen to your favorite music while appearing to be praying or listening to the rabbi. These additional features can be disabled in Shabbat mode, however, the radio can be left for all of Shabbat allowing you to discretely listen to “Car Talk” during the extended Bar Mitzvah portion of the morning service.

But, while I am working on the Tallis app, as well as other possible tallis innovations (the spandex tallis, the survival tallis for Yom Kipper, a Kevlar tallis for the IDF), I must admit that there is a simple pleasure in enclosing myself in my trusty white and blue one purchased in Jerusalem many years ago. There is something comforting about enclosing myself within its folds. Perhaps it is tactile; perhaps it is something more than skin deep –something ancient, visceral, and pre-conscious.

As the Shema approaches and my search for each fringe ensues, I find myself mouthing the words: “Bring us together in peace from the four corners of the earth”. I think of my tallis as representing the Jewish people. We are unruly and uncooperative. Each individual segment has a mind of its own and seems determined to go its own way. Segments of our people have been lost and then rediscovered. When will all of our corners be settled – each in its place- each understanding that we are all of the same cloth? How long will we court danger through baseless hatred for each other - “Tzinat Chinam” – the same baseless hatred that precipitated the destruction of the Second Temple? But we are wandering Arameans and we are an unruly and stiff necked people. Wrapped in the folds around me and clinging to the cloth, I ponder that each of us has a role to play in bringing together the disparate corners and the fringes of our people.

Perhaps, as we struggle to bring together each corner of our tallesim, so too does God strive to gather God’s people from the four corners of the earth. Together we wrap the tzitzit around our fingers and close our eyes. We pray that there will come a time when the Jewish people will come together in peace and, as one, proclaim the belief that unites us: Sh'ma Yisraeil, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.