Return of an Old Friend

It has been a few years since Raphaela has watched Dora the Explorer, she outgrew the fascination with a magical back pack and talking animals who live in the Amazon Rain Forest.  Dora never seemed to go to school, as she was too busy on her fantastical adventures, and her parents didn't seem to mind.

Recently, we discovered a new show called Dora in The Big City, in which Dora is a teenager, her family has moved out of their colorful isolated cabin in the Amazon and into a posh beachfront town.  Dora has one friend who is a boy (Pablo) and a group of girls who of course represent all the politically correct skin tones and ethnicities.  Dora has also traded in her magical back pack for a magical bracelet; at the end of each show, she and her friends hang out at a juice bar on the pier, and talk about how great it feels to help others.

Dora still does not seem to attend high school.

Well, yesterday we were channel hopping, and delighted in the teenage Dora show, because it was a reunion/cross-over with her old Explorer self.  Her best friend, the monkey Boots, needed help, because the Swiper the Thieving Fox stole Back Pack and Talking Map.  Which of course led to Dora and her troupe to travel by train plane and automobile, and boat, to the Amazon Rain Forest, her former home.

And of course we got to see all of her old friends: Benny the Strong Dumb Ox , Isa the Lizard Gardener, Tiko the Gay English speaking squirrel, Big Red Chicken, Roberto the Robot, etc.  They hadn't changed a bit, and I found myself getting choked up as well.

What impressed me most was that the fox not only acknowledged his stealing ways, but he also showed genuine remorse and helped locate the items.  A redemption of sort for the character, except for that brief moment when he contemplated grabbing Dora's magical bracelet.

At the end of the show, after they did the stupid kid Dora dance and sang of a mash up of the new and old series song, all the new and old characters had a sleepover in Dora's TARDIS-like tree house (bigger on the inside) in her backyard, in the Big City.  As Dora said, and as I concurred, "We were all having such a wonderful time together and getting along so well, I didn't want it to end."

As the screen faded to black, Boots the Monkey started to tell the story of how he and Dora accidentally turned Benny into a potato.

That was one of my favorite episodes...

Vacation and Politics in Israel

Since we are not taking any major vacation trips this summer, I had decided that I would take off certain random days of work so that Raphaela and I could do local day trips, have bits of vacation inside a regular work week.  I also felt it was important to spend time with Raphaela before she starts First Grade in the fall, to make her feel special.

I had decided that tomorrow would be one of those days, a hike/exploration of the Herodian archaeological site followed by an afternoon of fun by the pool with our adopted family in Tekoa. [Near Herodian, very much over the Green Line, a stressful car ride on a regular day]

First came the heat wave, over a week of temperatures throughout the country in the mid to upper 30 degrees Celsius.  Not a time to be out in the sun and hiking the top of a mountain, no matter how interesting and historical it might be.

Then came the promise of violence, from Jews and Arabs alike, following the burning death of an Arab baby, one day after a deranged Ultra-Orthodox man stabbed six people at the Jerusalem Gay Pride parade.  So I have to ask myself, given that the road to Herodian and Tekoa runs through several Arab villages, is it actually safe or smart to drive there?  Am I putting my life and that of my daughter in danger, or am I over-reacting to the news and the politics and the threats of Armageddon?

I may be more aware than some, since I was almost killed by a Palestinian sniper during the Second Intifada, in 2001.

Jurassic Park, Jerusalem Style

Every once in a while, Raphaela goes into a panic about volcanoes.  Where are they located in the world, does anyone we know live near an active volcano, how could we stop lava flow, etc.

This morning she woke up quite concerned about volcanoes, and we had the following conversation:

RR:  Mommy, are there any volcanoes in Israel? I really don't like lava.
Mommy:  As far as I know, there are none, though the Fertile Crescent sits on a major fault-line.
RR:  What?!
Mommy:  Never mind.
RR:  Mommy, does anyone in our family live near an active volcano?
Mommy:  No, the active volcanoes are in South America, not North America.
RR:  But Mommy, what about my Bat Mitzvah trip?
[We have already decided that for her 12th birthday we will be going on a real safari in Africa. I have already started saving up for this trip. Any leftover money will go toward driving lessons.]
RR:  Don't they have active volcanoes in Africa?
Mommy:  Yes they do, but I promise you I will not take you to any place that is unsafe.  That being said, do not try to pet the lions when we are on safari.
RR:  Perhaps we should have my Bat Mitzvah somewhere safe, like in America.
Mommy:  [looking her straight in the eyes] I will always protect you, because I am your Mommy, wherever we are in the world.
RR:  Even when we go to visit Mars and Jupiter?
Mommy:  Yes, even in outer space, I will protect you and keep you safe.  That is my job.

Later today, we went to the Jerusalem Botanical Gardens, for the last day of the gallery showing of Raphaela's photograph, followed by the Dinosaur Tour. I must admit, these life-size moving and growling dinosaur robots felt so real that even I was a bit frightened.  When we got to the T-Rex, Raphaela hit behind me and said, "Mommy, I know these are just robots, but now is the time you need to protect me. It's your job!""

 

 

As a small present, I bought Raphaela a dinosaur egg that 'hatches' after you soak it in water.  She has now spent several hours sitting and watching this egg, waiting for it to crack and release the toy inside.  I didn't even bother explaining about watched pots never boiling.

I Like it Here in America

Eight years ago, I received a phone call from my third cousin -our great-grandfathers were brothers - who happened to find me after he had done extensive genealogical research.  Bonus, we happened to be neighbors in the same area in Jerusalem, and when my daughter was born, she had a slew of  built -in cousins. He became a big brother, and his wife was my doula during Raphaela's birth; she was the second person in the world to hold my daughter after the birth.

This past weekend, this family celebrated the Bar Mitzvah of their eldest son, and Raphaela and I happily attended this event.  Raphaela immediately clicked with a cousin who is a bit younger than her, thrilled that she was finally able to play "Elsa and Anna" and be in charge.  In fact, Raphaela spent the whole weekend speaking a beautiful English to relatives from the United States who barely speak Hebrew.

At one point during Shabbat lunch, Raphaela came over to me and whispered in my ear, "I have such a big family!" Then she ran off and I barely saw her the whole day.  Truly a Win-Win situation.

Given that I treasure the life I have built here in Israel, and I believe in the value system here, I would not actually consider moving back to America any time soon.  However, this weekend reminded me how close I am to my first cousins, mostly to the credit of my grandmother who hosted the whole family several times a year on major holidays.  My grandmother also put effort into reminding us to stay in touch and strengthen our connections throughout the cycle of the year.

I am sad for my own daughter, who knows that theoretically there is a big wide world of aunts and uncles and cousins, and that she has only met and spent time with a handful of them.  I am also sad for her that she automatically accepts that many of them may visit us in Israel for a short period of time, and will then return to their life overseas.

At one point during Shabbat, Raphaela told me that she wishes we could live in the United States, if it meant seeing more of our family.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Almost three years ago, Raphaela and I traveled to the United States and bounced around various peoples' houses, where my daughter and I at the very least shared a bedroom, if not a bed.  When we got home to Jerusalem, Raphaela decided that she quite enjoyed the arrangement and since then has ended up in my bed at some point during the night, every night.

I have tried various methods of bribery to change this situation, to no avail; but perhaps this year the holiday of Succot will be my savior!

With encouragement from her teacher in kindergarten, Raphaela had expressed an interest in sleeping outside in the Succah.   Because we don't have our own booth this year, I set up instead a sleeping bag on the floor of my room, which Raphaela garnished with her favorite dolls and books and various pillows.  Since last Wednesday, she has also slept on the floor in my clinic office and the living room, and I am slowly edging her out of my bedroom altogether.

To my delight, the game of playing camping on Succot lasts all night and into the next morning, and I get my leg room, pillows and blankets all to myself.   I am hoping to suggest that the floor of her bedroom (or even her bed) works just as well, once the Jewish holiday vacation ends next week.

A Time to Cry

Standing on line at the post office this morning, I started to cry.  Heaving sobs burst out of me, the first time I have "given in" to the daily stress here in Israel since we returned from the United States almost two weeks ago.

The guy at the counter didn't seem concerned at all, several other people came over to me, offered me tissues and tried to reassure me that "soon this will end. It will be OK."

One person asked me, "Why are you crying?"  And I answered with that characteristic Israeli shrug of the shoulder, "For no real reason, just like that."  And another woman said to me, "No one cries for no reason these days."

It was easier to dismiss my tears in front of these kind strangers than to explain:
I am crying because our soldiers are dying every day to keep us safe, while literally the rest of the political world on planet Earth tries to convince us that we are the criminals and that we ought to cease defending our lives, our very right to exist.

I am crying because I am physically exhausted, having not slept decently in the last two weeks because of night terrors and nasty thoughts and concerns for the security of my daughter and my extended family.

I am crying because some guy (yes, a dating thing in the middle of all this) treated me like garbage in a time that I am more vulnerable, and I lament the unfairness of my doing all that I do, alone. (On the heels of my brother's wedding, and the start of his beautiful life in marriage...)

I am crying because if it had not been for my birthday several days after we returned, a day in which luckily people pay attention to you,  I think that many people would have not noticed that we had been away at all.

I am crying because after not working for two and a half weeks, and having the expenses of the trip, something in my car went "pop" and now the windows are opening and closing by themselves.  Of course my issues - physical, emotional or financial - are nothing compared to the experiences of the soldiers and their families, and the parents of the three boys murdered one month ago, the trigger for this military incursion. I should just be content, it could be argued, that my family is thank G-d healthy and that we live in Jerusalem, where there has been relative quiet.

I am crying because I am still emotionally jet-lagged from my trip, a large part of me wishing I had extended my visit in the United States where I did not have to face the struggle of this current Israeli reality.

After the post office, I walked home while attempting to avoid contact with people, ashamed of my feelings and my blotchy eyes and my running nose.  Went to work and shut off my feelings, because that is what I must do;  if my schedule allows it, I will cry some more later, before I have to pick up Raphaela from her last day of camp, and put on a brave face again.

War Report from Jerusalem

Upon arriving home, I noted that the two eggs in the pigeon's nest in our window had hatched, and there sat two somewhat large chicks, being tended by their parents.  Since then, one of the two chicks has lifted its wings and learned to fly;  his sibling adamantly refuses to budge from the window sill.

It has been almost amusing, the perpetual "conversation" between the adult pigeon and this baby, which probably translates to, "Come on already, your brother/sister figured it out, it's not scary.  Get out of the house and get a job..."  And yet in the last week there has been no progress, the chick is staying put.

Watching Dora last night on cable television, the show was regularly interrupted with notifications of bombings taking place in real time throughout the south, a free service courtesy of the government.

I get it, it is scary out there, and now more than ever for those of us living in Israel during a war.  Last night we both went to sleep early in an attempt to finish off our jet lag, and I woke up with a terrified start in the early hours of the morning, having just dreamt that I got separated from Raphaela during a missile attack, playing out the horrible possibilities as a parent.  I never really fell back asleep after that, my heart was racing too fast and I did not want to close my eyes and replay that scene in my head.

Then, while walking Raphaela to camp today, we stopped at the usual spot to feed the street cats for whom we have taken responsibility.  An Israeli soldier sat on the wall, he could not have been more than 22 or 23 years old, unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers.  I told Raphaela to thank him, to acknowledge that he is putting his life in jeopardy to keep us secure.  I asked the soldier where he was stationed, and he told us that he was waiting for his ride to the army base, and after that he would be placed on the border of Gaza in the South of Israel.

With tears in my eyes, I wished him well and told him to "stay safe," as if he or I have any control over the matter.

Home Again, Home Again

 

 

From New York to Kansas to Boston to London, we have arrived home, to Jerusalem.  I must admit that I did not want to take my daughter into a war zone, when life in America seems so familiar and so comfortable, superficially easy.  Honestly, I know very few of my friends and family in the United States who wake up each morning and think, "Who is trying to kill me today?"  (There is always a little room for paranoia, especially in New York City...)

 

On Friday morning, jet lag be damned, Raphaela and I went to Palmach street; we dropped off clothing at the dry cleaners, got supplies for Shabbat and restocked the fridge from the supermarket.  Everything and everywhere, Raphaela proclaimed with joy, "That's my Gan!"  "That's my bakery!"  "This is the best day ever, I'm home!"  And I was reminded why it was so important for us to come back to Israel, because in her heart, Raphaela is an Israeli and Jerusalem is the place where I found my life.

 

Yet, regardless of my jet lag, I stayed awake all night waiting for the sirens to go off, and wondering where Raphaela and I would be safe from attack, and praying for the safe return of our soldiers involved in the ground operation in Gaza.

End of the Year III

What better way to celebrate the 17th anniversary of my Aliyah, my choice to become and Israeli citizen and to invest in a good future for me and my family, than to attend Raphaela's graduation from Nursery School. For the first time all year, not only did my daughter participate happily in the animal-themed event, but she even had a bit of a starring role.

This represents major progress in Raphaela's ability to overcome her performance anxiety and bolster her self-confidence, and bodes well for next year.

On the down side, I broke my toe this morning tripping over Raphaela's scooter, hardly the injury I need one week before we leave for the United States, at the beginning of the Summer vacation.

Bring Back our Boys

A friend of mine used to live in Efrat, in Gush Etzion, a boring place according to her son who during high school, would occasionally skip school with some of his friends and hitchhike into Jerusalem, to hang out at the mall.

This boy is now a 'man' in his 20's, and yet this story keeps running in a loop in my head, and I keep thinking how lucky my friend should feel that nothing ever happened to her son on one of his excursions.

Israel is a funny place, there are terrible things happening - like the kidnapping of three boys studying in Gush Etzion, by Hamas - and although we manage to function normally, the news updates and the thoughts of anger and horror dominate.  What's more, many of the Israelis who stand politically against the so-called occupation of the West Bank, joined in prayer with 30,000 Jews last night at the Kotel [The Wailing Wall] to pray for their return and their safety.  In fact Jews all over the country, in small synagogues and in Tel Aviv's Rabin Square united in prayer last night; unfortunately,  it takes tragedy to pull us together.

Gal-Galatz, the popular music army radio station, has switched into sad-song mode. (Meanwhile, the Palestinian supporters of Hamas appear in the international media, handing out candies and dancing in celebration.)

Yesterday I treated patients in the clinic, bought medicine for our cat Harry, made phone calls and checked emails, folded laundry and washed dishes, and continued my preparations for our trip to the United States in two weeks.  In the afternoon, Raphaela attended a birthday party of one of her girl friends from Gan, and came home with an art project (not yet dried) that made everything in the house shimmer with glue glitter, and I was annoyed.

But not so annoyed, because my daughter is home with me, safe within my arms, and there are three families who cannot say the same.

When I scanned Facebook last night, after Raphaela had fallen asleep, I would estimate that half the posts concerned these three high school students;  the prayers on their behalf, the posturing of politicians within Israel and abroad, the collection of money and supplies for the soldiers who are currently combing every inch of the West Bank, 24 hours per day.

The other half of the Facebook posts featured things like:  a person selling their television and bedroom furniture, college students looking for apartments for the Fall semester at Hebrew University, a woman selling spare tickets to a concert next week, Fathers' Day memes, a mother asking for advice about summer camps, a bit of news about a stash of medicine that had been looted from a warehouse, the latest scores in the World Cup.

You know, normal life events.  Israel is a funny place.

I took Raphaela  shoe shopping yesterday, in preparation for my brother's wedding in July.  I told her that we would not necessarily be buying anything today, but that I did want her feet measured to see how much she had grown, and if certain pairs of shoes were now too small on her.

Raphaela listened and then looked at me with a very practice face and said, "Mommy, no need to measure my feet. They're big."

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On those occasions that Raphaela goes too far and misbehaves knowingly, I will not necessarily shout, but rather give her The Face, that expression that says that I am not happy with her actions and an apology had better be on the way, asap.

Yesterday Raphaela came up to me, eyes bulging and mouth frowning, a poor impersonation (and recognizable nonetheless) of my Angry Face.  My daughter informed me that she was not actually angry at me, but she was "practicing."  I suggested that we have a staring contest, and of course Raphaela broke first, giggling and smiling until we were both laughing out loud.

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A friend of Raphaela's, a boy in her English lessons who has come over to our house many times to play, has recently started getting aggressive. The other day he scratched her arm, it looked like an animal had attacked her, and Raphaela also reported that he had come over and hit her for no reason in particular.

If this were an old fashioned New England school house, he would be dipping Raphaela's braids in the ink jar.

I have spoken to the teacher about this behavior, and I have asked Raphaela how she handled the situation at the time.  She informed me that first she said, "No, stop!" and when the boy didn't listen, she "hit back " and defended herself.  Then she told the teacher about the incident.

While I most certainly do not condone violence, my Inner Israeli Mother was thrilled that my child has finally learned that she has a right to not get hurt, and that she has a right to fight back.  Raphaela now knows that she does not have to be a wimp, a lesson that will serve her well in the long run living in Israel.

Now we are Free

Israeli Pessach by the Numbers:

62,000 plus Israelis will pass through Ben Gurion Airport, on their way out of the country
400 or so  flights will operate in and out of Ben Gurion in the next 24 hours
90% of Jewish Israeli citizens plan on celebrating Seder with their families
55% of Jewish Israelis plan on keeping a kosher house during the holiday

And fair warning to Israelis from a paranoid New Yorker:  Don't post your vacation plans on the social media, it simply provides easy pickings for thieves.

Planning Ahead

Today, when picking up Raphaela from school, I could barely get in the door of the building, it was stuffed corner to corner with strollers.  As I went up the stairs, I could hear masses of adults flooding the classroom next to my daughter's, with all the children dressed to the nines and holding large bouquets of flowers.

I clarified, after asking several parents, that the Pre 1A class  were celebrating Grandparents Day. They had invited the entire family to attend this "fancy" nursery event:  parents, grandparents, and siblings of all ages, culminating in the presentation of flowers by the grandchild to the respective grandmother and/or grandfather.

The idea is beautiful, yes, but it immediately put me in a panic, thinking, "Next year Raphaela will  most likely be in this class with this teacher,  and when it comes to Grandparents Day she will have no one. Not grandparents and not a father and not a little brother or sister. Just a Mom who loves her beyond all imagining."

It made me sad.  I know that if my Uncle Bitzi were alive, he would have come to represent.   And it put me in a mood to start thinking about and planning for a year from now;  do I invite my parents if I can give them enough notice, assuming they can travel from Boston at that time?  Do I recruit family friends to appear as surrogate grandparents?

 How do I approach this topic with the teacher, without singling out Raphaela unnecessarily?

We are the Champions

I had been putting off the renewal of Raphaela's passport, because who wants to sit in a government office with an active  little girl, when you can procrastinate;  after all, we plan on traveling in July for my brother's wedding and that seems very far away.

Except that once April begins, the requests for passports will fly through the roof, and we would spend hours upon hours waiting our turn in line, and weeks upon weeks to receive the new documents.  So this morning bright and early - actually not so bright, but rather in the cold pouring Jerusalem rain - Raphaela and I drove to the Ministry of the Interior.  I brought along snacks and markers and coloring books and my iPad for entertainment, and prepared for the unpleasantness that is Israeli beaurocracy.

Except that as a Type A personality, we arrived so early that our number in line was "001," and we were in and out within fifteen minutes, with Raphaela arriving at Gan much earlier than I expected, hardly even late by any one's standards.

As we got into the car to go to Gan, Raphaela looked at me with a smile and said, "Now we can get on an airplane to the wedding, see my cousins, and I can wear make up!"

Play Date Heartbreak

My daughter, Little Miss Social Butterfly, had asked me to arrange a play date with her friend M for this afternoon, after school.  When I picked up the children, both she and her friend were grinning ear to ear and making all sorts of plans for their time together at our house.

As we got closer to our street, the boy started to fret and asked me to take him to his house.  Though he could not be specific about his discomfort, he clearly wanted to abort this play date, which then caused Raphaela to crumple on the side walk and cry in the face of a perceived rejection.

I assured M that I would respect whatever he was feeling, and after dropping him off, Raphaela was inconsolable.  I explained to her that both children and grown ups sometimes get into a situation where they get afraid and plans change;  that M is still her good friend and that he does not think any less of her or their friendship; that her sense of frustration and disappointment is totally normal; and that M can come another day, when he is feeling less anxious.

We then spent a better part of the afternoon on a special project, transforming a large empty IKEA box into an airplane, whereupon we 'flew' to the United States to visit my brother and his family.  I can only assume that Raphaela and I had more leg room in our airplane (Air Susie) than we will in reality when we fly to the United States this summer for my youngest brother's wedding.

Brave

Today, after dropping off Raphaela at Gan, I had a few hours free before work.
I got into my car and sat in Route One traffic, got to IKEA without getting lost and was one of the first customers in the store.
For a change, I had brought a shopping list, basically stuck to the list and did not exceed my planned budget.
I ate Swedish meatballs, had no near miss driving experiences on the way home on the highway,  and got home in time to pick up Raphaela.

These are all big things for me, each step along the way, marred only by the fact that I did not have a friend to accompany me and enjoy the day trip to Sweden.  It's the little touches, a new throw pillow or bathmat or laundry basket, that freshens up the house.

Now someone has to help me together all this stuff...

Jerusalem Marathon I

After my Great Uncle died, his 86 year old sister Ida wrote to me and told me that I should not take a single day or a single person for granted.  And it got me thinking.

Raphaela is now four and a half, and it is time I took my body back.  It has been five years since I was running regularly, and two years since I last ran the Jerusalem Marathon.  I am quite tired of looking at that little bit of belly fat left over from my pregnancy, when I know as a Chiropractor I could actually do something about it, make it go away with consistent effort and hard work.

So I went online and signed up for the 10K Jerusalem Marathon.  I sat down and wrote up a calendar, showing me how many days I had to train properly.  I pulled my second-hand Treadmill out of storage and stuck it in the only available space in my house, taking up all the floor space in my bedroom.

When Raphaela saw the Treadmill, she assumed it was a fancy clothing hanger, because it had served that purpose for far too long.  Now, my daughter will be proud of me when she sees me run, victorious, healthy and happy.

I have devised both short term and long term goals for my training:
1.  Deadline, Purim (16/3/14):  I want to be able to show off my legs with pride in my Tardis Purim costume.
2.  Deadline, Marathon (21/3/14):  I don't care if I finish in professional time, but I am going to run that Marathon without pain or ungainly effort, cross the finish line and get my medal.
3.  Deadline, Bro's Wedding (13/7/14):  Must look smoking in the family pictures, as they will be on display for time immemorial.
4.  Deadline, 46th Birthday (24/7/14):  Beach day, one word:  Bikini

Truth be told, I am my own worst critic.  When I look in the mirror, I think that I look slightly pregnant, when I don't.  When I run 4 km after a break of two years, I criticize myself because I could have done more, once upon a time.

So my fifth and most important goal is to realize that the outside world makes women feel like S**t for no apparent reason, and I do not have to be a size zero to love myself, and be considered a sexy and date-able Mom.

I am not taking myself for granted anymore.

The Little Doctor Who

When we were little and stuck inside the car on endless road trips, ["Mom, he's putting his feet on my side of the seat!" "Mom, she's staring at me and making faces." "Dad, I have to throw up." ] my parents used to tell us that if we blew really hard, we could change the traffic light from red to green.

My brother and I would wait for their signal, and then we would gather out deepest breath, and delight in the fact that we personally had changed the light to green.

Every morning on the way to Gan, Raphaela takes her "Sonic Screwdriver" - a la Doctor Who, but actually a large paint brush - and uses it to change the pedestrian signal from red to green.  She waits for my ok, points her Sonic Screwdriver at the intersection and makes a loud beep-like sound.  Lo and behold, she assists all those standing and waiting to walk across the street, bringing her joy as well. "Good job, I did it!"

52Frames

As a high school student, if you had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have answered without hesitation: a photojournalist.  I saw myself traveling the world, taking fantastic photos that would appear on the cover of magazines like National Geographic and newspapers like the Boston Globe and the New York Times.  I was going to make a difference in the world by exposing the truth of our existence through the lens of my Minolta camera.

In college I took photography courses to counter-balance the difficulty and the intensity of the pre-med studies, in art I found my joy.  I enjoyed the challenge of each week's assignment, and welcomed the critique that helped me grow as an artist.  Once a week, usually on a Monday, I would take two rolls of black and white film and walk through Central Park and other parts of The City, and was not allowed to go home until I had 72 photos;  if two or three were decent out of the lot, I had had a good afternoon.

Since moving to Israel, the extent to which I have indulged my creative side and the dedication to photography has waned, put on the back burner for starting my career and getting pregnant, raising that child and sleeping every once in a while.

Recently, a friend told me about an online international project called 52Frames, a collaborative effort with both professional and amateur photographers; each week a new mission is posted on the site, to be fulfilled and exhibited and critiqued by the group.

I should have jumped for joy when I heard about this, immediately turned on my computer and applied to be a part of this beautiful initiative.  Surprisingly, the only thing I felt was ambivalence, and a pervasive hesitation about even thinking about joining.  I felt sad, and it confused me actually.

Am I afraid of the competition, that I am not good enough to show my work?  Have I been so focused for so long on other endeavors that I have lost that spark of the Inner Artist and that competitive edge?  Is this a fear of commitment masking itself as, "I don't have the time..."

Whatever it is, it concerns me and I must figure it out before it has greater repercussions in my life.

Chanukah in the Old City 2013

Since Raphaela has never been to the Old City in Jerusalem in a cognitive conscious way, I had decided that on one of the days of Chanukah I would take her on a walk through the Old City and to the Kotel [Wailing Wall].  The weather report for the next three days is threatening rain (finally!) for the next three days,  so we set off today.

My expectations of her ability to traverse the rocky paths and the long walk were low, and Raphaela far exceeded them, walking almost four hours on the steep and broken streets, pushing through the massive crowds without fear.  When we concluded our tour and were on our way to the bus stop, Raphaela said, "Mommy, why bother taking the bus?  We can walk home from here, it's not that far from here!"  Well, she might have had excess energy but Mommy felt pretty exhausted.

While it is less advisable to give charity money to random people wandering around the Old City, I wanted to teach Raphaela the joy of giving with a full heart, so I set aside a bunch of loose change, gave it to her and told her that she could give it to whomever she felt fit.  Raphaela distributed the change to many people, including a random mother walking with her children;  the woman laughed, understanding the meaning behind the gesture, and suggested Raphaela give the coins to someone more worthy and more needy than herself.

As we walked through the alleys, I explained to Raphaela that the ridges in the stones were part of an ancient sewage and drainage system, and that the Jews in the time of Chanukah did not have a modern plumbing system or bathtubs like we have today.  Raphaela seemed even more concerned when I told her that in the time of the Macabees, there was no such thing as television or the Internet.

"What did they do with their time, Mommy?" (Very valid question for this generation...)

We lost count of the number of menorahs we saw, large small and very large.

At the Kotel, I explained to Raphaela that although G-d listens to us everywhere, this place, a remnant of the Temple, G-d listens very well, and that she could make a special wish.

 

 

I submitted my regular Christmas list IE health, good friends and supportive relationships, professional success, the end of this war of terror and World Peace etc.  When I asked Raphaela what she had discussed with G-d, she answered that she had requested Love.