Yom Kippur -"Jews Praying in the Synagogue" (1878)

 

This is one of my favorite paintings depicting the Jewish faith. "Jews Praying in the Synagogue" (1878) by the Polish arttist Maurycy Gottlieb. This High Holy Day is when the Jewish people ask forgiveness for their sins against God. For sins committed against their fellow man it is tradition that the offender ask forgiveness directly from the people they have offended. 

I was always taught that you were bound to ask for this forgiveness three times. If, after the 3rd attempt, your plea is denied, then the person offended is the one who carries the burden of unforgiveness. At the same time, I have always felt that there are certain cases in which you needn't forgive someone. Only you will know if you are right, or wrong in this. Your heart doesn't lie. 

Of interest in the painting is that the artist depicts himself three times in various stages of his own life. The central figure of the artist, middle aged, shows him holding his hand to his head in aparent anguish. The young child on the left, wearing a medallion bearing his initials in Hebrew, is also an image of himself, as is the young man to the right, reading from a prayer book while standing next to his father. Again, the number three seems to be a central element of the painting. I'm not sure if there is a connection between this and the tradition of asking for forgiveness three times, but it is an interesting thought. 

"G'mar chatima tova,” or “May you be sealed in the Book of Life” is the appropriate greeting for this, the most Holy Day of the Jewish Faith.

A Christmas Tree Grows In Brooklyn - from Betty Smith

This is a repost from last year and the year before. I present it again simply because I love it that much. I hope that if you have never read this, you will now. Your life will be enriched. And, even if you have read it before, you will find that it will refresh your spirits. I include my last year’s introduction and hope to add a bit to it each year.

If you can read this portion of a chapter from Betty Smith’s “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” without choking up, then you are probably not living. One of the most poignant portions of a book filled with such moments, this is a tale that should be read each Christmas. To me it is the equivalent of “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens; only shorter; as most things are.

In this brief glimpse into the lives of the Nolan family on Christmas Eve are all of the same lessons contained in Dicken’s classic holiday tale. The realities which we live are largely of our own making. And, just as Jacob Marley forged each link of his own damnation in “A Christmas Carol”, we are all capable of undoing those links as well. As you read this, remember that about the tree-seller.

There was a cruel custom in the neighborhood. It was about the trees still unsold when midnight of Christmas Eve approached. There was a saying that if you waited until then, you wouldn’t have to buy a tree; that “they’d chuck ‘em at you.” This was literally true.

At midnight on the Eve of our dear Saviour's birth, the kids gathered where there were unsold trees. The man threw each tree in turn, starting with the biggest. Kids volunteered to stand up against the throwing. If a boy didn’t fall down under the impact, the tree was his. If he fell, he forfeited his chance at winning a tree. Only the roughest boys and some of the young men elected to be hit by the big trees. The others waited shrewdly until a tree came up that they could stand against. The littlest kids waited for the tiny, foot-high trees and shrieked in delight when they won one.

On the Christmas Eve when Francie was ten and Neely nine, mama consented to let them go down and have their first try for a tree. Francie had picked out her tree earlier in the day. She had stood near it all afternoon and evening praying that no one would buy it. To her joy it was still there at midnight. It was the biggest tree in the neighborhood and its price was so high that no one could afford to buy it. It was ten feet high. Its branches were bound with new white rope and it came to a sure pure point at the top.

The man took this tree out first. Before Francie could speak up, a neighborhood bully, a boy of eighteen known as Punky Perkins, stepped forward and ordered the man to chuck the tree at him. The man hated the the way Punky was so confident. He looked around and asked;

”Anybody else wanna take a chanct on it?”

Francie stepped forward. “Me, Mister.”

A spurt of derisive laughter came from the tree man. The kids snickered. A few adults who had gathered to watch the fun, guffawed.

“Aw g’wan. You’re too little,” the tree man objected.

“Me and my brother — we’re not too little together.”

She pulled Neely forward. The man looked at them — a thin girl of ten with starveling hollows in her cheeks but with the chin still baby-round. He looked at the little boy with his fair hair and round blue eyes - Neeley Nolan, all innocence and trust.

"Two ain't fair," yelped Punky.

"Shut your lousy trap," advised the man who held all the power in that hour. “These here kids is got nerve. Stand back, the rest of youse. These kids is goin’ to have a show at this tree.”

The others made a wavering lane. Francie and Neeley stood at one end of it and the big man with the big tree at the other. It was a human funnel with Francie and her brother making the small end of it. The man flexed his great arms to throw the great tree. He noticed how tiny the children looked at the end of the short lane. For the split part of a moment, the tree thrower went through a kind of Gethsemane.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” his soul agonized, “why don’t I just give ‘em the tree, say Merry Christmas and let ‘em go. What’s the tree to me? I can’t sell it no more this year and it won’t keep till next year." The kids watched him solemnly as he stood there in his moment of thought. "But then," he rationalized, if I did that, all the others would expect to get 'em handed to 'em. And next year nobody a-tall would buy a tree off of me. They’d all wait to get ‘em handed to ‘em on a silver plate. I ain’t a big enough man to give this tree away for nothin’. No, I ain't big enough. I ain't big enough to do a thing like that. I gotta think of myself and my own kids." He finally came to his conclusion. "Oh, what the hell! Them two kids is gotta live is this world. They got to get used to it. They got to learn to give and take punishment. And by Jesus, it ain’t give but take, take, take all the time in this God-damned world.” As he threw the tree with all his strength, his heart wailed out, “It’s a God-damned, rotten, lousy world!”

Francie saw the tree leave his hands. There was a split bit of being when time and space had no meaning. The whole world stood dark and still as something dark and monstrous came through the air. The tree came towards her blotting out all memory of her having lived. There was nothing – nothing but pungent darkness and something that grew and grew as it rushed at her. She staggered as the tree hit them. Neeley went down to his knees but she pulled him up fiercely before he could go down. There was a mighty swishing sound as the tree settled. Everything was dark, green and prickly. Then she felt a sharp pain at the side of her head where the trunk of the tree had hit her. She felt Neeley trembling.

When some of the older boys pulled the tree away, they found Francie and her brother standing upright, hand in hand. Blood was coming from scratches on Neeley’s face. He looked more like a baby than ever with his bewildered blue eyes and the fairness of his skin made more noticeable because of the clear red blood. But they were smiling. Had they not won the biggest tree in the neighborhood? Some of the boys hollered “Hooray!” A few adults clapped. The tree man eulogized them by screaming;

“And now get the hell out of here with your tree, you lousy bastards.”

Francie had heard swearing since she had heard words. Obscenity and profanity had no meaning as such among those people. They were emotional expressions of inarticulate people with small vocabularies; they made a kind of dialect. The phrases could mean many things according to the expression and tone used in saying them. So now, when Francie heard themselves called lousy bastards, she smiled tremulously at the kind man. She knew that he was really saying, Goodbye – God bless you.”

Happy Chanukah 5773!

Last night marked the beginning of Chanukah, the Jewish Festival of Lights. I ran this piece last year for Chanukah and have decided to re-post it again this year. Partly because it’s a really good encapsulation of the holiday’s history, and partly because it gives me a day off. Hey, it is a holiday! May your dreidels keep spinning! (Note: The photograph above is of the 8th night of Chanukah last year. I wanted to show the candles in all their glory.)

Happy Chanukah! Tonight is the first of eight nights of celebration commemorating the Miracle of the Lights. Literally, Chanukah means a re-dedication. This always takes place on the 25th day of the Hebrew month of Kislev. The story behind the holiday is, of course, like Christmas, biblical in it's origins. The actual events took place over 2,000 years ago in Judea amongst the Hebrew people of the time.

The Jews were the first mono-theists, that is, they were the first to believe in one God. To honor him they built a temple on Mt. Moriah in Jerusalem. Inside were the scrolls of the Torah, which were housed in an Ark. That Ark stood on an Altar which also held a lamp of oil burning in God's honor. This was a symbol of the special relationship the Jews felt with their Creator.

At the same time as the Hebrew people were worshipping their God, Alexander the Great was busy conquering the entire Persian Empire, an area that includes present day Iran, Iraq and the surrounding states. Wherever Alexander the Great went he erected huge statues of the Greek idols. He also placed statues of himself in every important place to show that these countries were under his rule.

At first Alexander allowed the Jews to worship their God with little interference, but that soon came to an end. When the Jews were ordered to place a statue of Alexander the Great on Mt. Moriah, they were horrified! Alexander understood this and allowed the Jews an exemption to this rule, and grateful Jews everywhere named their first born sons Alexander in his honor.

When Alexander died, Antiochus came into power. He was an unforgiving and determined man, hell bent on putting the Jews in their place. He forbid the Jews to worship in their own way and outlawed the Sabbath. Things might have gone on in this way for a while longer had Antiochus not made one crucial mistake.

On the 25th of Kislev, he ordered his troops to bring a statue of Zeus to Mt. Moriah for placement inside of the temple. And then he did the unthinkable - he slaughtered a pig on the Altar, spraying the Torah with the blood of the animal as he did. He then set out in the countryside, erecting more statues and demanding that the people worship them. This was not to be.

A local villager named Mattathias, knocked the statues down and formed his 5 sons into a band of rebels he named the "Maccabees", which means hammer in Hebrew. Soon, more Jews joined Mattathias and his sons, attacking the soldiers and destroying the idols. Antiochus was in a full blown rage at this affront to his supremacy and gathered his army outside of Jerusalem, intent on destroying the Jews once and for all.

At dawn his troops attacked, and were ambushed by the waiting "Maccabees." The people took refuge in the Temple atop Mt. Moriah and repaired all the damage that Antiochus had done to the Altar. Three years later, on the same date, the 25th of Kislev, the Temple was re-dedicated to God. The only problem was, of course, a shortage of oil for the lamp. With a prayer, the Holy Priest poured one days oil into the lamp, and then prayed for the light to last until new oil could be obtained.

That one day's worth of oil burned for 8 days, sustaining the faith of a battered people. And that is why we commemorate this event every 25th of Kislev. There is miracle in light, as well as light in every miracle. Happy Chanukah to all!

Black Friday and Hotel Rooms

Black Friday; this is what it’s all about; camping outside in the pre-dawn hours for that extra special, super-duper, early bird, smart shopper deal. Ah, the camaraderie, the sense of community and holiday cheer as you wait in line. Then the doors open and you trample over the old lady with the walker in front of you to save a few bucks. Don’t look for me there!

This year Sue and I went to Chapel Hill to have Thanksgiving with our daughter Sarah. Dinner was great; it was good to see Sarah and her husband, Michael. But, Sue and Sarah have a holiday tradition of meeting one another at the mall on Black Friday, so we spent the night at a local historic hotel; supposedly haunted; so that they could meet one another early today. I’d rather have gone home. The ghosts don’t bother me; I’d just rather be at home.

But, “home” is where you lay your head; and so, accordingly I brought along a few things to make my time in the hotel room more enjoyable, providing I don’t annoy the ghosts. So, with guitar in hand, an I-pod in my pocket, along with a good book to read, I’ve settled in for a comfortable morning while Sarah and Sue go shopping. Sue left at the ghostly hour of something like 6 AM, which didn’t bother me as I am usually awake at that hour anyway, getting ready to take a nap.

After a light breakfast and reading the morning paper, I will probably play some guitar; providing the ghosts are not annoyed; and listen to some music while I shower. Then I’ll work on my blog, looking for something suitable for tomorrow’s weekly cartoon. By the time I finish fooling around with all of this; once again provided that I have not annoyed the ghosts; it will be about time for Sue to return and we’ll check out. Then we’ll head home, stopping along the way to eat and look at stuff. That’s what we do.

So, don’t look for me in the crowds today. You won’t find me. I do my shopping at about 2 PM on weekday afternoons, when the stores are virtually deserted. But, I have to admit, there is nothing as relaxing as being in a hotel room; where you can’t possibly run into something you forgot to do around the house. And, even if you do, there’s not much you can do about it.

"Land of Islam" - Morris J. Kandel (1934)

Browsing the internet can be like taking a tour around the world. I can sit here and visit places I have never seen, or re-visit the places I have. And; as an added bonus attraction; I can go back in time to places; both seen and unseen; which, for various reasons, intrigue me. This travelogue from 1934 is like that. It reminds me of my own visit there in the 1970’s, as well as capturing the flavor of the film “Casablanca”, one of my all-time favorite.

As the announcer takes us on a tour of the city, it is interesting to note the many similarities still in evidence in the 21st century world in which we live today. Everywhere on the planet, people still struggle to eat, or seek medical care and a place to live. In many parts of the world, little has changed since this film was made almost 70 years ago. That realization can be an epiphany in itself.

These videos are valuable tools in helping to understand the world around us. Looking at them we can see the similarities of the things we share; as well as the differences which divide us.

Surprisingly; when you break it all down; there are more basic similarities than there are superficial differences. And, in the end, this will be the thing which will unite us all. Apparently there are quite a number of these films available on You Tube. There are brief descriptions of the films at the bottom of all the postings, including how to get in touch with the owners for licensing of the film for commercial use. That link is;   www.travelfilmarchive.com

יום הכיפורים Yom Kippur - Day of Atonement - 5773

For all of my Jewish readers, including myself, Tuesday evening marked the beginning of our holiest day in the year, Yom Kippur, or the Day of Atonement. On this day, many Jews the world over, will be fasting until sundown this evening in an effort to cleanse ourselves of any sins we have committed in the past year. That’s the part where we apologize to God for any offenses we may have committed against Him.

But Yom Kippur is also about making amends with the individuals you may have offended, and this must be done directly, not through God. Traditionally, after you have asked forgiveness of the offended party 3 times, you are released from your obligation, and the sin of unforgiveness then falls upon the one who was originally aggrieved, as they would seem to lack the ability to forgive. It is a most interesting concept, and not as easily accomplished as one would think. The perception of just who was responsible for the affront is subjective at best, making this one of the most difficult of the Commandments to fulfill, as it involves pride.

The painting above is called “Jews Praying in the Synagogue on Yom Kippur” and was painted in 1878 by artist Maurycy Gottlieb. To all my readers, regardless of faith, may we come together in the year ahead. The alternative to not doing so is almost unthinkable.

Private Parts in Public Places

This is a delicate subject, one which has sparked debate between various co-workers and I over the years past. I say “past” as I no longer have co-workers; being retired; but the subject of this particular debate applies in the private sector as well. I’m talking about washing your hands when using the bathroom. Don’t take me wrong; I am a firm believer in washing your hands; and mine as well; whenever either of us use the “facilities.” My point of contention is whether, or not, this said washing of the hands should take place before, or after, using the bathroom.

I look at it in this way; when I go to use the bathroom my hands have been all over God’s creation; touching things in stores, shaking hands with people; you name it, they’ve been doing it. And, while they have been so active, they have probably picked up a few germs along the way. So, that is why I wash my hands before I use the “facilities”, as opposed to after.

Think about it; while my hands have been involved in all the aforementioned activities, my private parts have been safely ensconced in a clean pair of underwear, right where I put them after taking a shower. So, in my mind, washing my hands before makes perfect sense. I wouldn’t want to inadvertently place public germs in my most private of places.

Would you believe that I have observed men who simply walk into a rest room; right after working on their car, or digging a ditch; just unzip and spray away? Only then, after sullying their “best friend” in such a manner, do they wash their hands. I have often wondered what was on their clean “private part” that needed to be scrubbed away with so much vigor before they go back to digging the ditch.

Realistically, I do like that there are signs for restaurant employees which instruct them to wash their hands before going back to the kitchen.  That seems to make sense. I mean, when you come right down to it,  your meat should never touch my meat;  in any way, at any time. Besides, I know where my meat’s been, but I haven’t got a clue about yours.

So, in summation, I think it would be best to wash both before and after. Take this missive in whatever light you prefer; mild satire, silliness, plain ribaldry, or just the ramblings of someone with nothing to say today. Either way, I’m glad to have finally gotten this off of my chest.

Mother's Day

It's time, once again, to pay our respects to Mother's everywhere. From Bristol Palin to Clay Aiken; no matter what your gender; if you are playing the role of mother to a child, you are holding/molding the future for the rest of us. Whether you are a "traditional" stay at home mom; or a single working mom; you walk a fine line everyday in the choices you make for your children's futures. The rest of us; those who have past that stage of life; can only stand by, wishing you well, and providing support where necessary. The rest is all on you.

Of course, I had a great Mom; except for when I was about 15-18 years old. Cultural changes were tearing many families apart, and mine was no exception. But, as I got older, she got wiser, and so we reached a point where we were both comfortable with one another. We had stopped expecting the other to be what we expected one another to be. We accepted one another for who we were. It wasn't easy for either of us to get there, but we did.

Anyway, this is just a Mother's Day rambling from a guy whose Mom passed away in 1984. If you got one that's still around, treat her well. You only get one; ever. So, of course, a very Happy Mother's Day to my own mom, Ruth Marcus Williams. I've heard it said that so long as someone still speaks your name, you will live forever. I still hear echoes of you every day.....

Happy Mother's Day!

Here are two clasic poems for Mother's Day. The first is by Christina Rossetti. If it seems to be a bit lacking in her usual polish, you need to know that this was her first poem, written in 1842, to her mother. Ms. Rossetti was 11 at the time.

To My Mother

To-day’s your natal day,
Sweet flowers I bring;
Mother, accept, I pray,
My offering.

And may you happy live,
And long us bless;
Receiving as you give
Great happiness.

This next poem was written by another of my favorite English poets of the 19th century, Rudyard Kipling. He did it all; journalist, poet, master of any genre he chose, this was the introduction to his novel, "The Light That Failed", which was released in 1891. This introduction came to stand on it's own, especially amongst the British forces up to and through the Second World War.

Mother o’ Mine

If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o’ mine, 0 mother o’ mine!

My own Mom passed away in 1984. That's her on the left, with me standing behind her. The photo was taken aboard the USS Milwaukee in 1978. Though she has been gone for almost 3 decades, we still speak often, and she has interceded on my behalf several times over the years. It's the only explanation I have for having now lived to be older than she was when she left!

So, to all Mothers everywhere, you have the hardest job on the planet. Thanks for doing it well. It's often said that the hope of the world lies in today's children. But it is equally true, to a great extent, that the future of those children lies in the hands of their Mothers. Happy Mother's Day!

Groundhog Day - A Brief Comment

With winter only 5 weeks old, we find ourselves once again engaged in the old tradition of waking up the groundhogs early from their winter's hibernation, in order to ask them when winter will end, as if they know. And, more to the point, would be the fact that, if they did know, they couldn't tell us. So, as with last year, and many years prior to that, I'm rooting for the groundhogs again. This year, I'm hoping they're going to do something dramatic, like take a healthy bite out of the hands that wake them up!

With blizzards raging across a 2,000 mile long swath of the country, the groundhog is the smartest guy in town. He's deep down in his hole, sleeping. To those who wish to trek out into 3 foot of snow, and dig him out - best of luck. My own prediction, based upon the calendar, and not my arthritis, is that it will be winter until it is over in about 6 weeks.

"Nine Lives" by William Dalrymple

They say never judge a book by it's cover. They're wrong. This book is every bit as mesmerizing as the myriad of colors and images that comprise the jacket. The author has done a superb job in documenting the lives of nine different Indians and their struggle to find where they fit into the grand scheme of things. Not since last years "The Corpse Walker" have I run into such compelling personalities and stories.

Set in modern day India, the author explores the lives of nine different individuals. From the daily trials of a "temple prostitute" to the story of a Jain nun witnessing her friends ritual starvation, this book opens your eyes to things which you would probably never have even imagined.

The work abounds with irony, as in the story of a Buddhist monk who resorts to violence in an effort to keep Tibet autonomous. He then spends the rest of his life atoning for his sin. What price independence?

The most astonishing thing about this book is that there are still corners of the earth, in every country, where ancient tradition and superstition still survive. And the question called to mind is the age old one of which is right, and who is wrong? Is our modern world, with all it's marvels, really any better, spiritually, than the old one? Is there wisdom in the old ways? Are we deluded in our thinking that we have found all the answers?

By exploring these divergent lives the author forces us to confront our own intellects and learned perceptions. Several different religions are explored here and it is difficult to not contrast them with the reader's own belief systems. You are left with questions as well as great admiration and wonder over the differences we have all inherited in our lives. What do these differences mean in terms of who we are and what we will become?

Books state facts, really good books pose questions. This book meets the criteria of both.