How did it get to be June?
How did Donald Trump come to be the presumptive republican nominee? I will not go there. All I know is that he will NOT be the next President of the United States of America.
Much of the last few months of this year were, for me, taken up by my eye! My left eye.
I suffer from glaucoma and for some unknown reason the pressure in my left eye, after having been stable for more than a year, skyrocketed. I underwent a medieval torture treatment known as needling, in which a needle was stuck into my eye and the doctor, whom I love and adore did something to the 'bleb' he had constructed in surgery a few years ago. If you don't know what I am talking about, that is fine, you are lucky, and you don't need to know. The long and the short of it all is that for at least six weeks my eye hurt and my vision was blurry. I only drove very short, well known distances, and spent minimal time with anything that has a screen. And while this was going on, Trump trumpeted, bullied, whined, lied, manipulated ........
My eye feels much better and my vision has cleared, and I pray the pressure stays down.
Other things happened. I completed a certificate in life coaching and now have to make an appropriate website for my new services!
I also became a groupie. Currently I am in an art class, a writing group, a spanish speaking group, and an enneagram group! Me, who abhors any kind of group activity.
I had a cousin stay with me and then I went to Chicago for a few days. And now a nephew is staying with me and we are cooking, listening to music, watching movies, and discussing all matters pertaining to the arts, to life, and to death.
I feel this is a time of changes, the level of intensity seems to be revving up even more than it has been. I feel buoyed by a swift moving current and am doing my best to stay afloat ...
Wednesday, June 8, 2016
Monday, March 14, 2016
Dissonance
Anyone who has read at least some of my posts knows that for quite a long while I have been grappling with concepts of time, space, memory. Part of these constructs must include for me the dissonance of having three distinctly separate, yet nevertheless merging, identities. The South African me, the Israeli me, and the American me.
This morning I received an e-mail from a Yom Kipur war widow. She addressed it to Israeli war widows stating that she is writing a book on the sadly ongoing effects of the Israel Wars from a women's perspective. She is interested in knowing how we were told of what had happened, and how it impacted our lives. She also is interested to hear how we were affected by our new status of being 'war widows' and how this aspect impacted society's response to us.
I have written about this in some form or another, whether it is in journals, or essays, or books, over the many years since.
Now I realise that at first I was too young and too shocked to fully absorb the affects of the war. Mercifully, I feel, a shock absorbing buffer surrounds us. With the wisdom of hindsight I can now see how the war itself, and the shock of being widowed, has affected my every decision, whether consciously or subconsciously, since.
Even receiving the e-mail this morning has thrown me out of my routine, such as it is. It sent me whirling into the realms of memory and remembrances; of the places I have since lived in my life, of the work I have done, of decisions I have made or not made, such as buying a home. The very idea of that kind of permanence scares me. Since coming to America 36 years ago !!!!!!! I have lived with the ongoing ambivalence of not knowing whether I will live in America, or go back to Israel. An indecision that is with me even to this day, this moment, in fact. How can I put down roots anywhere? What does that even mean for me? to put down roots?
We lived on a kibbutz. The first few years after the war I was really supported by the community. In fact, I still am. They are the only ones who truly can comprehend those dreadful times After a few years, I began to feel that there is a stigma attached to being a war widow. Society wants the woman to remain faithful to her hero husband who died defending the state. It is frowned upon if she begins a new relationship - for a few years at least. Then after a few years it is suggested that she must form a new relationship. These rules of appropriate conduct are only implied of course, not stated or written, but they begin to impact one's life.
After a few years I felt that I had to get out of the kibbutz. And I did, I left Israel. As soon as I left I felt free, I could just be me, Nesta, not "Nesta the war widow" or "Nesta of Rafi, who was killed." . I could have a life of my own, noone knew, or would even understand what had happened to me. At first this felt liberating, but later it began to be alienating. It is comforting for me to return to Israel and to be with those who know and understand, even if we do not speak about it.
This year in October it will be 43 years since the war, and its effects still reverberate in my life, and in the lives of everyone in Israel, even for those for whom now it is yet another war in the history book of wars.
This morning I received an e-mail from a Yom Kipur war widow. She addressed it to Israeli war widows stating that she is writing a book on the sadly ongoing effects of the Israel Wars from a women's perspective. She is interested in knowing how we were told of what had happened, and how it impacted our lives. She also is interested to hear how we were affected by our new status of being 'war widows' and how this aspect impacted society's response to us.
I have written about this in some form or another, whether it is in journals, or essays, or books, over the many years since.
Now I realise that at first I was too young and too shocked to fully absorb the affects of the war. Mercifully, I feel, a shock absorbing buffer surrounds us. With the wisdom of hindsight I can now see how the war itself, and the shock of being widowed, has affected my every decision, whether consciously or subconsciously, since.
Even receiving the e-mail this morning has thrown me out of my routine, such as it is. It sent me whirling into the realms of memory and remembrances; of the places I have since lived in my life, of the work I have done, of decisions I have made or not made, such as buying a home. The very idea of that kind of permanence scares me. Since coming to America 36 years ago !!!!!!! I have lived with the ongoing ambivalence of not knowing whether I will live in America, or go back to Israel. An indecision that is with me even to this day, this moment, in fact. How can I put down roots anywhere? What does that even mean for me? to put down roots?
We lived on a kibbutz. The first few years after the war I was really supported by the community. In fact, I still am. They are the only ones who truly can comprehend those dreadful times After a few years, I began to feel that there is a stigma attached to being a war widow. Society wants the woman to remain faithful to her hero husband who died defending the state. It is frowned upon if she begins a new relationship - for a few years at least. Then after a few years it is suggested that she must form a new relationship. These rules of appropriate conduct are only implied of course, not stated or written, but they begin to impact one's life.
After a few years I felt that I had to get out of the kibbutz. And I did, I left Israel. As soon as I left I felt free, I could just be me, Nesta, not "Nesta the war widow" or "Nesta of Rafi, who was killed." . I could have a life of my own, noone knew, or would even understand what had happened to me. At first this felt liberating, but later it began to be alienating. It is comforting for me to return to Israel and to be with those who know and understand, even if we do not speak about it.
This year in October it will be 43 years since the war, and its effects still reverberate in my life, and in the lives of everyone in Israel, even for those for whom now it is yet another war in the history book of wars.
Friday, February 26, 2016
What is Wrong?
As Trump continues on his roll I wonder what this says about 'the American people.'
I have always been opposed to the use of those words 'the American people' or 'let the people decide' etc. as if the inhabitants of the USA are one homogenised bunch. Really.
As for Trump, I know the talking heads and pundits all say the american people are angry with the current status quo in Washington, blah blah blah. These are the voices and the votes of fearful ignorant people. People who are petrified of anyone different from them - people of color, people of different faiths, poor people, rich people (except for one who keeps trumpeting about how rich he is.)
This weekend a crazy white man shot and killed 6 people with whom he had no connection, in Kalamazoo. No one made a fuss. It was barely mentioned in the press. I am sorry, but that shooting is an act of terror of which apparently the american populace are so scared of. But the shooter is not a Muslim, and he wasn't shouting for jihad,. That does not make him any less scary. He is a homegrown terrorist and no one worries. I just don't get it.
This week Frontline aired a 2-hour piece on the heroin epidemic. Now that so many addicts are white, well off, and educated addiction is now understood as a sickness. The addicts are no longer imprisoned. However, the prisons are still full of non violent offenders from previous epidemics.
Does noone remember the crack epidemic?
Something is indeed very very wrong with this society. In the wealthiest country in the world there is a sickness of spirit that pervades all its people and is becoming worse and worse. It is this sickness of spirit and fear of everything that paves the way for the lunatics.
However, I HAVE to bear in mind that it is not everybody, and hopefully some sanity still prevails.
I have always been opposed to the use of those words 'the American people' or 'let the people decide' etc. as if the inhabitants of the USA are one homogenised bunch. Really.
As for Trump, I know the talking heads and pundits all say the american people are angry with the current status quo in Washington, blah blah blah. These are the voices and the votes of fearful ignorant people. People who are petrified of anyone different from them - people of color, people of different faiths, poor people, rich people (except for one who keeps trumpeting about how rich he is.)
This weekend a crazy white man shot and killed 6 people with whom he had no connection, in Kalamazoo. No one made a fuss. It was barely mentioned in the press. I am sorry, but that shooting is an act of terror of which apparently the american populace are so scared of. But the shooter is not a Muslim, and he wasn't shouting for jihad,. That does not make him any less scary. He is a homegrown terrorist and no one worries. I just don't get it.
This week Frontline aired a 2-hour piece on the heroin epidemic. Now that so many addicts are white, well off, and educated addiction is now understood as a sickness. The addicts are no longer imprisoned. However, the prisons are still full of non violent offenders from previous epidemics.
Does noone remember the crack epidemic?
Something is indeed very very wrong with this society. In the wealthiest country in the world there is a sickness of spirit that pervades all its people and is becoming worse and worse. It is this sickness of spirit and fear of everything that paves the way for the lunatics.
However, I HAVE to bear in mind that it is not everybody, and hopefully some sanity still prevails.
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Iowa Caucuses
Cruz, Trump, Rubio ----- to wake up to the announcements of such a triumvirate
Remember GW's triumvirate of evil? Here they are, alive and doing well in these United States of America.
United States? what a misnomer
!!!
Misogyny, misanthropy, misinformed
Come on, give me all the mis's you can think of
Remember GW's triumvirate of evil? Here they are, alive and doing well in these United States of America.
United States? what a misnomer
!!!
Misogyny, misanthropy, misinformed
Come on, give me all the mis's you can think of
Sunday, January 17, 2016
The Time Thing
"How long were you away?" asked someone.
Just two weeks, in terms of time as we know it. But I must return to my musings on time and space. Indeed, in measured time, two weeks, but in terms of consciousness, eons. And now that I am back I am experiencing that same contraction of time and space. The veils are inevitably thickening again between all that is.
How to measure my time there? It was so wonderful to reunite with my brother, sister, nephew, and niece. We live on 3 different continents, but reunited in India. So helpful for me to experience that new dimension with my sister - my brother has been in it for decades but we are visitors, and just touch down from time to time, now experiencing it, then gone again.
My sister and I regressed to the comfortable language of our childhood. We used lifts, not elevators, and pressed the button for '0' for the ground floor, and not for '1', like in America. We doned spectacles, and we took snaps of people and objects.
The three of us shared memories of our ancestors and the meandering paths they took. Over shared photos we saw how we share genetic traits, how the bloodlines continue over such disparate paths
My brother and I remembered how we had fought over miscommunications from years past. Silly misunderstandings that flare like a dry bush catching fire and heating the space between us. It was clarifying and healing to uncover these long forgotten artifacts, to dust them off, and bring them to light.
And then I went off on my own, and feel very pleased with myself at having accomplished this, and that I survived!
And no doubt many more bubbles will surface and I will attempt to put them down here.
Just two weeks, in terms of time as we know it. But I must return to my musings on time and space. Indeed, in measured time, two weeks, but in terms of consciousness, eons. And now that I am back I am experiencing that same contraction of time and space. The veils are inevitably thickening again between all that is.
How to measure my time there? It was so wonderful to reunite with my brother, sister, nephew, and niece. We live on 3 different continents, but reunited in India. So helpful for me to experience that new dimension with my sister - my brother has been in it for decades but we are visitors, and just touch down from time to time, now experiencing it, then gone again.
My sister and I regressed to the comfortable language of our childhood. We used lifts, not elevators, and pressed the button for '0' for the ground floor, and not for '1', like in America. We doned spectacles, and we took snaps of people and objects.
The three of us shared memories of our ancestors and the meandering paths they took. Over shared photos we saw how we share genetic traits, how the bloodlines continue over such disparate paths
My brother and I remembered how we had fought over miscommunications from years past. Silly misunderstandings that flare like a dry bush catching fire and heating the space between us. It was clarifying and healing to uncover these long forgotten artifacts, to dust them off, and bring them to light.
And then I went off on my own, and feel very pleased with myself at having accomplished this, and that I survived!
And no doubt many more bubbles will surface and I will attempt to put them down here.
Thursday, January 14, 2016
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Back Home
Did you keep up your blog?
No, wifi connections were spotty. I did something much more tried and true. I actually wrote - in a journal, just like I have done for most of my life. I filled an unlined moleskin notebook and remembered how much I enjoyed writing longhand.
So now comes the blog.
Yes, of course I have photos. I shall upload a few. But as you may have noticed, visuals are limited on this blog!
It was just 6 days ago that I sat in the back of an uncomfortable small taxi without air conditioning being trounced around as we drove through narrow poorly tarred roads that wound up and down through the hilly countryside from Udaipur to Kumbalghore (Kumbalghash) the massive almost impregnable fort built in the 15th century, and Ranakpur, the exquisite Jain Temple. I wondered what and how to write about these experiences.
I think I will begin with being in, or on a vehicle, (I actually rode on the back of a scooter!) as it seems a metaphor for India itself. The only driver whose car seemed to have a seatbelt told me not to use it 'it is against comfort Madam.' He said this to me as he hurtled through congested lanes while conversing on his cellphone and honking. None of the millions of people on motor scooters wear helmets - I am sure that too, is 'against comfort.' Many had bandannas tied around their faces, some kind of attempt against pollution, I am sure. It was dark as we drove from the airport to Udaipur and needless to say, roads were packed, as were the stalls and lanes at the side of the road. Suddenly the driver braked and we came across what appeared to be a major traffic jam. I peered out of the window to see bikes, cars, buses, scooters, tuk-tuks, rickshaws, pedestrians, all seemingly patiently waiting for a cow to amble across the road. Then we were off again, a kind of choreographed balletic flow.
The idea of personal space is quite different in India People jostle and touch and push one against the other. A total stranger on the boat from Elephanta Island back to Mumbai cuddled next to me, arms around me, soft and smiling, as her daughter 'snapped us.' It seems to me that everyone enjoys being in close proximity, 'one to the other' and this proximity is also enjoyed on the roads. Every type of vehicle, from outsized trucks to bikes and cars also appear to enjoy being perilously close to each other. One feels the motion in the air as a car moves closely by, the warmth of an engine, glancing off someone's legs on a bike. All familiar, all comforting to each other, and for me, each exhalation is filled with gratitude at having survived.
I sat in the back of the taxi, bouncing up and down, my tailbone hitting the hard area of where the belt should have been, my spine undulating and bouncing, sweat pouring off my face, and thought to myself that I must tell friends to remind me that I must never ever come to India again.
What is it about this country that keeps drawing me back? No sooner than I thought that I must never return, than I began to plan yet another trip in my head.
I think that for me, anyway, the stream of consciousness that constantly flows all around is an in-my- face reflection of the universality of the human condition. The universality of grinding poverty reflected in every line deeply etched on the faces of those passing by. They are emaciated, their legs bowed, they surely suffer from rickets. Poverty and suffering are part of the human condition - here we cannot avoid it. Every thing I see reflects the hardships, it is visible on the people, the dogs, the cows, the monkeys.
And untold wealth- a 27 storey building in Mumbai where the richest man in India lives, replete with helipad and an entire floor which is a swimming pool - and two people live there, with 2-300 servants!
And beauty - faces light up with smiles, the large velvet eyes of the children gaze out seriously from under thick lashes to light up the area around them.
And devotion - the joy on the faces of people in the temples, the beautiful thousands of years old traditions of darshan and arati. The fragrance of jasmine, the blowing of conches, the tinkling of bells. A constant flow of all that ever was, and all that is, and all that will ever be.
No, wifi connections were spotty. I did something much more tried and true. I actually wrote - in a journal, just like I have done for most of my life. I filled an unlined moleskin notebook and remembered how much I enjoyed writing longhand.
So now comes the blog.
Yes, of course I have photos. I shall upload a few. But as you may have noticed, visuals are limited on this blog!
It was just 6 days ago that I sat in the back of an uncomfortable small taxi without air conditioning being trounced around as we drove through narrow poorly tarred roads that wound up and down through the hilly countryside from Udaipur to Kumbalghore (Kumbalghash) the massive almost impregnable fort built in the 15th century, and Ranakpur, the exquisite Jain Temple. I wondered what and how to write about these experiences.
I think I will begin with being in, or on a vehicle, (I actually rode on the back of a scooter!) as it seems a metaphor for India itself. The only driver whose car seemed to have a seatbelt told me not to use it 'it is against comfort Madam.' He said this to me as he hurtled through congested lanes while conversing on his cellphone and honking. None of the millions of people on motor scooters wear helmets - I am sure that too, is 'against comfort.' Many had bandannas tied around their faces, some kind of attempt against pollution, I am sure. It was dark as we drove from the airport to Udaipur and needless to say, roads were packed, as were the stalls and lanes at the side of the road. Suddenly the driver braked and we came across what appeared to be a major traffic jam. I peered out of the window to see bikes, cars, buses, scooters, tuk-tuks, rickshaws, pedestrians, all seemingly patiently waiting for a cow to amble across the road. Then we were off again, a kind of choreographed balletic flow.
The idea of personal space is quite different in India People jostle and touch and push one against the other. A total stranger on the boat from Elephanta Island back to Mumbai cuddled next to me, arms around me, soft and smiling, as her daughter 'snapped us.' It seems to me that everyone enjoys being in close proximity, 'one to the other' and this proximity is also enjoyed on the roads. Every type of vehicle, from outsized trucks to bikes and cars also appear to enjoy being perilously close to each other. One feels the motion in the air as a car moves closely by, the warmth of an engine, glancing off someone's legs on a bike. All familiar, all comforting to each other, and for me, each exhalation is filled with gratitude at having survived.
I sat in the back of the taxi, bouncing up and down, my tailbone hitting the hard area of where the belt should have been, my spine undulating and bouncing, sweat pouring off my face, and thought to myself that I must tell friends to remind me that I must never ever come to India again.
What is it about this country that keeps drawing me back? No sooner than I thought that I must never return, than I began to plan yet another trip in my head.
I think that for me, anyway, the stream of consciousness that constantly flows all around is an in-my- face reflection of the universality of the human condition. The universality of grinding poverty reflected in every line deeply etched on the faces of those passing by. They are emaciated, their legs bowed, they surely suffer from rickets. Poverty and suffering are part of the human condition - here we cannot avoid it. Every thing I see reflects the hardships, it is visible on the people, the dogs, the cows, the monkeys.
And untold wealth- a 27 storey building in Mumbai where the richest man in India lives, replete with helipad and an entire floor which is a swimming pool - and two people live there, with 2-300 servants!
And beauty - faces light up with smiles, the large velvet eyes of the children gaze out seriously from under thick lashes to light up the area around them.
And devotion - the joy on the faces of people in the temples, the beautiful thousands of years old traditions of darshan and arati. The fragrance of jasmine, the blowing of conches, the tinkling of bells. A constant flow of all that ever was, and all that is, and all that will ever be.
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