Refreshed

 I have been feeling somewhat blah - best description I can come up with it.  Not depressed, I go through  the motions of yoga, spanish, art, seeing friends, walking, reading - but just blah. 

Yesterday dawned no different, but sometime during the morning when pondering on which walk to take I decided to get in the car and drive to the Bay Trail - Pt. Isabel.   In recent months it has been unusually windy along the trail. A strong wind blows in from the bay whipping my hair all around and causing havoc to my eyes. To such an extent that it is downright unpleasant and I wear a 'covid' shield to protect my eyes, but the shield by now is cloudy so I don't really look anywhere but down on my feet.

Yesterday proved to be a Goldilocks day - a gentle breeze, fresh smelling clean (green light) air, not too hot, not too cold, conditions were just right.  I even found a parking space in the Rydin Street lot. I preceded down the trail along the shorefront.  The egrets stood sentinel in the marshes.  Just occasional hikers, hardly any bikers.  The tide was out, the mudflats displaying the reason for their name.  Shorebirds pecked around the edges and downtown Oakland and the Bay Bridge stood silhouetted against the sun - a lovely frame for the bay.  The sun glinted, sparkled, twinkled, reflected, mirrored, on the furrowed waves - lighting one, then another, as the water of the bay undulated. An occasional pelican flew and swooped, an egret raised its magnificent span and flew just over the lagoon.  The reeds and the grasses rustled drily.  Indeed all is dry - even the air. 

Further along as the path curves around the houses of the Marina Bay I saw the Golden Gate Bridge stretching from San Francisco to the gentle slopes of the Marin Headlands.  Mt. Tam lounging in the sun. A gentle lap of water breaking along the shore, a few sailboats, just one windsurfer, and the path turns again to the Richmond Marina.  

A picture perfect, gentle day.  The pause that refreshes.  

Thanks to the beauty which surrounds us.

 

A Memorial

 This morning I drove a formerly well traveled route.  I attended a memorial at Fuller Funeral Home on Cutting Boulevard in Richmond. This time the memorial was for the grandmother of one of the micro-premie girls I worked with. Her mother dropped her off at her mother's home in San Pablo before she went to work.  Those were the good days before the draconian cuts began, so I would see the girl at her grandmom three times a week.  The girl was a micro premie - born just on the edge of being viable. Her first two months were in the NICU and she was referred to me with a page full of all the complications of extreme prematurity. In addition to everything else, while in the NICU she had ripped out the tubes from her nose and mouth and so had two scars down either side of her tiny face.  She was born a fighter - which is why she survived. African American girls are the strongest survivors of premature birth.  I think this is genetic - they come from generations of survivors.  it was quite obvious her grandmother was such a woman. When I met her she was retired from her 40 years of work as a social worker.  She was a big woman - very big, both in stature and her bearing.  As big as she was, her heart was just as big; open and welcoming. Which is why I attended her memorial today - I have remained in touch with this family every since I began to work with them.  I was there to pay my respects, to her family, and of course to her.

I called the funeral home beforehand to ask about Covid precautions. They told me everyone had to wear masks and we would be seated appropriately socially distanced. At this time the delta mutation is raging, and I know that not everyone there has been vaccinated. Nevertheless, I decided to attend, and I am very pleased I did.  I suppose I will know soon enough whether I have been infected. It is hard to keep on a mask while sobbing, which most people were doing - especially the men, it seemed.  

This woman had 4 children, 16 children, 18 great grandchildren and a host of relatives both on her side and her husband's side. I met many of them over the years - at funerals, weddings, graduations, and family get togethers. Today was a gathering of people on walkers, robust and healthy people, children - a bustle of braids and barrettes and eyelashes and red and black clothing.  The pastor, a family member, spoke of the love,  the need for family to help each other - he preached, he sang, he spoke, he berated the congregation, and they murmured and answered in assent, and raised their hands, and swayed to the music. 

Then came the viewing and the final farewells. Thank goodness I have seen this before, because the first time I attended a Baptist funeral I almost fainted. I was ushered up to the casket and I sort of looked sideways at this doll that didn't resemble the woman, and put my hands to my heart, and left. 

This was the second time this week of being together with congregations, mourning, and celebrating life.

Yom Kipur

 This must be the first Yom Kipur I have experienced that is NOT intolerably hot.  In fact it is downright chilly, and this morning at home for zoom services I turned up the heat.   As I have written before, wherever I am in the world, Yom Kipur is always a scorching day.  I almost wonder whether there is any special meaning behind today.

Yom Kipur for me is the day I made a strange uneven pact with God. I entered into the pact on October 6, 1973.  The war began in Israel at 2.00 p.m.  on Yom Kipur.That was for all of us alive at that time, the day that forever changed our lives.

 In South Africa I fasted on Yom Kipur,  somehow it was sort of exciting, it felt a bit like a challenge, who could fast the longest! Then one year, when I was about 17 years old.  I remember going to synagogue and seeing a vicious, nasty, teacher of mine go up to the bimah and bow before the Ark.   His utter hypocrisy made me think about the meaning of religion and rituals.  I seriously questioned the sincerity behind these rituals when the person who carries them out with such pomp and ceremony is an evil being.  That day I decided from then on I would try to be a good person without religious trappings. I discussed this with my father. I informed him that I would no longer fast. He understood what I was saying. However I continued attending synagogue on the high holidays because it gave me a sense of belonging in South Africa. And, despite my protests, I fasted anyway.

My first Yom Kipur on kibbutz was, to my astonishment, a non event.  No one fasted, everyone worked, as if it were like any other day.  No one even seemed to know that it was a holy day.  Outside of kibbutz Yom Kipur was the only completely quiet day in Israel.  No buses, no cars, nothing. My second Yom Kipur on Ein Dor began in the same non manner, except that this year it began on a Friday night. I attended the disco after dinner , excitedly planned a party for when my husband was to finishe his army service the next week. I had thought he might be back this weekend, but he didn't get leave, so for sure he would be back the following weekend.

Saturday a group of friends sat at the pool,  an entanglement of bodies, slick with water and suntan lotion (NOT SPF),. We made plans for the upcoming event,  spoke of ordinary things, and then came the war.  As I walked back to my room my mind a jumble, my thoughts  turned to God. I asked him (of course he was a him) that if he spared my husband I would begin to fast again   Well, he wasn't saved, but ever since, I have fasted. That is why I call it my uneven pact.  Uneven, but unbroken. And over the many years, I have come to deeply honour and cherish this day.  It is a special day set aside to go deep within, and to be present with something that is greater than us.  And now, the second year of the pandemic, it feels even more important to me. As a congregant leader said this morning, on Zoom, (attended by 390 people ) "we feel you, we see you, we know you are with us.

And so I fast, alone, together with millions of people, and I am comforted.

5782

 Another year has begun, another year has gone. The cycle continues.

Another year in the presence of covid, BUT different from last year. This time we are able to celebrate in the presence of friends and family.  For this I am grateful. 

My wonderful nephew came to visit for a few days.  He really is a special soul.  My hope for the world lies with the young people.  For them I am grateful. 

The ocean, the sunsets, the hibiscus tree, the humming birds, the days of clean air which appear from time to time, despite the fires.  For all of these I am grateful.

And for the new year, I hope for more of the same.  I know now that this is no utopia.  I also hope that many people are looking within in this time of profound change, and looking to find what is really of importance in our individual lives, and in the life of the collective.

My hope is that we can all continue to evolve and change, and to hope.

Now Normal

 Here we are - the air is still and oppressive - it is hot.  When I look at the sunsets the sun is briefly blood red, then swiftly vanishes and all is a hazy wash of grey-ish pink-ish mauve-ish pastels.  

Tiny particles of ash cover everything like a blanket of snow. My eyes sting, I cough.

I sit inside, my air purifier sighs in the background, a diffuser emits a fine mist of eucalyptus, silver fir, peppermint, lemon eucalyptus supposedly cleansing the purified air.

This is now the 4th year of California summers, each year the season of smoke and fires begins earlier than the previous year.  Each year has me more prepared - I have the diffusers and purifiers on hand now. This is the second year of the pandemic.  Unfortunately the masks for fires are not allowed outside for pandemics.  

One copes, does what one must, this is now normal.

My Latest

 Here's my latest piece of art.

Here We Are

 Strange title, but no stranger than our present times.  

Since my last post I went on a small adventure.  A dear friend who lives on the East Coast sent me a ticket to visit. We decided that if there are non stop flights to the airport nearby I would go, 

So - a long flight from San Francisco to the East Coast - red eye - (particularly appropriate in my case). The flight was delayed by 2 1/12 hours so everyone slept!  It was full, no misbehavior, everyone masked, BUT it simply didn't feel very good. The return flight was the same - well behaved passengers, all masked - I sat next to a mother of one year old twin daughters!  Not much chance to sleep.  Nevertheless I decided to go for a covid test. Today I received the results - negative, but couched in medical terminology that makes it difficult to comprehend.  A simple negative or positive would suffice!

The green of the woods, and the bubbling, gurgling, blissful sounds of a rushing river felt so nourishing.  BUT - it is quite clear that our world is different.  There is no going back to what was.  I feel like after 9/11 - flying will never be like it was before - strict security is now the manner in which we move about the world.  Never again.will we simply board planes.

Now we have gotten over the shock of a pandemic, but the changes it has wrought are here to stay. Between the virus, and the shocking reality of climate change, and all the deaths and the uprisings, the despair, and the joy, and the beauty - all of these drift around and underneath and above us.  Things will never go back to what they were - such a short while ago.  We have no idea of where the changes are going, everything  ebbs and flows.  All we can do, I feel is to enjoy the good moments and not to fight the difficult times.  It is hard to plan ahead, but we can, knowing that any plans may change at any time.

This is our new reality.