The Exodus

I am not reading the book of the same name by Leon Uris, nor am I watching a re-run of The Ten Commandments. It is simply that as Passover approaches, my thoughts inevitably turn to the exodus of the Israelites from Egypt. I have been with groups with Israelis, and they are NOT an easy group to travel with at the best of times. I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been for Moses to lead this group of people from a known slavery to an unknown, and most likely, unimagined freedom.
A few years ago I joined a group of Israeli war widows for a tour of the Pyrenees and Basque country.
This tour was advertised for what it was, a week in the spanish side of the Pyrenees, and the Basque country. The itinerary laid out the towns in which we would stay and the areas we would see each day. We were not embarking on a journey into unknown and unchartered territory.
On the very first day, after traveling a few hours through rugged mountains and gorges, the woman sitting next to me declared that she had enough of scenery, she wanted to go shopping. "When will we get to Madrid?" she inquired. I told her that this tour did not include Madrid. She hadn't realized this, she saw a tour to Spain and arranged to come on the trip without reading any further.
This scenery she could see in the Golan heights - we would have days of scenery, how awful. If only she had realized ....
Others agreed with her. Furthermore, the restaurants didn't serve kosher food. This caused further rumblings. Some others seemed to understand that they wouldn't get kosher food in Basque country. They brought cans of food with them, and were not inclined to share this with the others who had not had this foresight.The Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao - maybe the architecture was interesting, but who wanted to waste time in museums? Cathedrals are of no interest whatsoever. Guernica - yes, awful what happened to the civilians there, right now there were suicide bombings in Israel, Guernica was even before the Second World War.
The accommodations were not good, even the weather was not up to par - too cold and rainy. In short, it seemed that many of the participants were utterly miserable from the moment we left until we returned. I can only surmise that they were, in fact, quite miserable both before and after the tour.And so I think of the exodus, the decades before, and the decades after.

Time

For the past few months I have been thinking about time, and what it really means.

It is a measurement that we absolutely need in order to exist, but it is just that, a measurement - we exist in this constant continuum of now, like some vast cosmic swimming pool. 

I have led, and do lead, three very distinct lives. The first part of my life was in South Africa, and I carry within me distinct memories of people and events and smells that all are in me now. 

Then I have my life in Israel, with its own very distinctive memories. 

Then there is my life here in America, equally separate and distinct from those other lives, and yet, all the time those three lives exist in me, sometimes overlapping. Like molecules moving about the three lives bump against each other, sometimes become part of each other, and then move on again. All is a constant ebb and flow.

I have had the privilege of meeting up with cousins and friends from my past over these past few months. Despite the passage of decades, of separate lives that have been and are being lived, we instantly recognize each other, and all that ever was between us exists in the eternity of now.

How fitting then, that just when I am grappling with these very elusive  concepts, I went on a trip to Yellowstone. It is as if the vastness, the magnificence of ever-changing nature, mirror the thoughts that have been with me. The cosmic swimming pool is the caldera in which Yellowstone exists now, and has existed for aeons.

And now I am back from Yellowstone, but all I have to do is to close my eyes and immediately be transported to that magical place which exists on our planet, along with all the magical places, and somehow despite their very separate and distinct regions, they also all exist within each other, as we do, within each others' lives, eternally.

Warning

This entry comes with a warning. It contains graphic descriptions of meat eating. The subject matter may be disturbing to some readers. If you have any objection to the consuming of meat, please don't read. I am, in fact, not a big meat eater. I was a vegetarian for about 10 years, but that was a while ago. Now I mostly eat chicken or fish, but I don't describe myself as a semi vegetarian. I consume animal products. Every year, with the onset of cold weather and long nights, my thoughts turn to meat, and meat dishes. One thing I loved in South Africa was oxtail. Tender oxtail in a tasty sauce prepared by my mom. The name oxtail is self explanatory - it is, obviously, the tail of an ox, but for some idiotic reason I do not think of it as such. I had not eaten oxtail for many years, in fact, I forgot all about it. Some years ago my sister, brother-in-law and myself visited an uncle in Connecticut. He has a home in the country. It snowed. This is the type of weather which is completely unfamiliar to us. We reveled in it. My uncle prepared oxtail and at first smell happy childhood memories came to the fore. Since that visit, I make oxtail at least once every winter. I buy oxtail that is cut and sold in sealed plastic bags. One year I went to Ranch 99, the asian supermarket in Richmond, and on the spur of the moment decided that that night would be my once a year night to make oxtail. I went to the meat counter and a woman barked something incomprehensible. I asked whether they had oxtail. She nodded, walked away, and came back and handed me an oxtail over the counter. I nearly dropped dead. This was not neat pieces of meat in a plastic bag that bore no resemblance to anything. This was an oxtail! I blanched. What on earth did I think oxtail was? I absolutely could not handle that tail she was handing over to me. I made a chopping motion with my hand and she withdrew the tail, placed it on a wooden block, held a cleaver above her head and she chop-chop-chopped very quickly, and handed me the tail in a plastic bag. I bought it because I was too embarrassed not to buy it, but I could not bring myself to cook it. I gave the tail to a neighbor who had no such compunctions. She cooked and ate it and that year I did not partake of oxtail. However, that incident became a memory that soon faded and I began buying oxtail again, hermetically sealed. Last night was really cold, and I made an oxtail stew. Delicious.

Work

A riveting conversation at work today with a 19 month old girl. Girl points to a green block and says "yellow" Nesta: "green" Girl: "yellow" Nesta: "green" Girl: "yellow" Nesta: "green" Quite fascinating, our different perspectives and opinions!

What are the Odds?

Last night I returned from a Thanksgiving vacation with dear friends in New York and Connecticut. I flew JetBlue from JFK Airport to Oakland International. A week before I had flown out of Oakland on a red-eye. The flight was full; families with babies, dogs (who seem to be the latest passengers) old people, young people. It was a singularly uneventful flight, which for me is the very highest compliment one can give to a flight. At JFK last night I sat at the gate and engaged in one of my favorite pastimes, people watching. I saw many of the same families and passengers who were on the plane a week before. I even saw two of the same dogs, a teacup poodle and a coiffed maltese. Approaching the area of the gate I saw a father in a big broad brimmed black hat, he had a grey beard and payot, (the side curls of religious Jews.) His son also wore a wide-brimmed black hat. They both wore black suits. A young girl in a dark blue dress accompanied them. I looked at them and thought, "I am not on my way to Israel, they are not flying to Oakland, this cannot be." We boarded the crowded plane and I looked ahead at my row. The family were standing next to the very aisle seat I had reserved - MY seat. When I reached my seat the young girl was strapped into it. "Excuse me," I said politely, I am in 12C." Her brother said "yes, yes, she will move," and he muttered to her while their father kept everyone waiting in the narrow aisle as he first put in their rolling luggage sideways, then frontways, then backwards, until a woman reached up and shoved it firmly in. The girl unstrapped and moved reluctantly into the middle seat. At her feet was a very large brown cardboard hatbox which she pushed under the seat in front of her. Directly across from me sat her brother, then her dad. As we taxied down the runway her brother, Shalom, called to Rachel, then he leaned over me and handed her a parcel wrapped in aluminium foil. She unwrapped it to reveal a hefty sandwich of hallah bread with some kind of meat and lettuce. I couldn't resist - "I hope it is kosher," I said to her. Very seriously she assured me that it is. Her tray was down with the sandwich on it and every time she took a bite crumbs covered the tray, her lap, my lap, and the lap of the man next to her. Shalom leaned over me again, this time to hand her a salad. But just then the plane was readying for takeoff so she had to put up the tray and passed the food back to Shalom.He then passed her a prayer book and she opened it and read the prayer for safe travel. Her brother and father prayed next to me, and I decided to join in. Rachel had lovely blue eyes and was quite a sweet little girl. Once we were in the air she got her food back from Shalom, who also passed a few cookies along. Then she told him she was not feeling very well and she closed her eyes. It was a night flight and quite soon everyone, including myself, began nodding off. I was rudely awakened by a bump and thud. A sleeping Rachel's head had fallen onto my shoulder. We both startled, she muttered "I'm sorry" fell back asleep instantly and back came her head. It remained on my shoulder for the rest of the flight. After five and a half hours the pilot announced we were beginning our descent into Oakland. Their was a hustle and bustle as everyone sat up, put their seats back and closed their trays. Not Rachel who was fast asleep. Across from me both Shalom and his father had fallen asleep with the same open mouthed poses. I did see dad begin to move and he nudged Shalom who also began to stir. I gently patted Rachel and put her tray up for her. I know Dad saw me, so did Shalom who gave me a half smile. One would think Dad would have said something to me, maybe a teeny weeny hint of a smile, a nod of thanks, but of course he didn't acknowledge my presence. We deplaned and the three headed out of the airport without a backward glance. Oakland, not Israel, and I have to be the one next to the religious Jews - I think God is trying to tell me something, but it is not clear what!

A Furloughed Day

Today was a furloughed day for me. Actually it was yesterday that was furloughed, but because I work only 30 hours a week I had to take off today. Dear dear, what a hardship! I had a few errands to do in San Francisco, which I entered into my new errands app I had recently downloaded. An exquisite fall day was a perfect opportunity to BART into the city by the bay. As always, when times are tough, (work wise) and down to the gritty side of life, I like to visit places of luxury. One of these, for me, is Pashma, a luxury cashmere and silk store. Just the feel of this luxury fabric calms me down! My errands list included a trip to Uniqlo - a Japanese owned store which opened on Friday. I was absolutely unprepared for the long line which snaked between iron bars as a few people were let in at a time. However, I decided to brave it The woman in front of me was of Asian heritage, and we spoke about the shock of standing in line, which we both did, patiently. Eventually a burly doorman gestured to me and in I went - to utter consumer insanity! I must say, the frenzied customers certainly behaved better than they did in the New York store of the same name. No-one pushed anyone (that I could see) and people asked each other their opinion as they tried on garments without the benefit of a mirror. (People stood about 3 feet deep in front of the mirrors.) I found a coat I had come for, and thought paying and leaving should be a breeze. No, it wasn't. Another line of people, stood in a another long snake line waited to pay, stuffed Uniqlo baskets in hand. I took my place. A Uniqlo worker stood there holding a large sign, "End of Line." She smiled continuously and informed those around her that this wasn't actually her job, but the store had been so unbelievably busy that this is what she had to do. She continued happily smiling all the while. The lady standing behind me suddenly leaned forward and whispered in my ear that she was having a "power surge" - was she sweating, she wanted to know. I informed her she looked fine. She went on to tell me she is from Colorado and she and her sister were on their way to Fisherman's Wharf but they got waylaid. She had a stuffed basket and told me she had bought Xmas gifts for her daughter. I smiled, and remained silent. Undaunted she continued, informing me of something about her ex-husband, which I didn't quite catch. Thank goodness, besides her power surge she didn't seem to have any health problems that she felt I should know about. Shopping here is far better than it is in Denver. She had also been to Tiffany's. Macy's was just amazing. Suddenly I heard a voice shouting "next customer, debit or credit" and I saw a young woman pointing to me from behind a cash register. I bade her farewell and went to the young smiling woman who said "thanks for waiting" as if there was a choice. When I returned home and unloaded my spoils I realized there were a few things I had forgotten to do, because although I diligently entered my errands into my app - I neglected to look at it! Damn, I am not ready to return!

Work

Work, a strange header. I do believe work is something I have not mentioned in a while, even though I began this blog ostensibly to write about my work. The fact is that because of the constant cuts and changes, it is becoming increasingly difficult for kids to be found eligible for services. Up to two years ago I had many referrals and new ones kept coming in. There were occasions that I was unable to take on a new referral. What has happened more recently is that referrals have really decreased, and the nature of referrals has changed. For instance, last week I received a referral to a little girl who is to be turning three on November 5th. That means I will see her for all of three visits! This is a little girl who at almost three has no words, and appears severely delayed in her social and self help skills. I spoke to mom over the phone to arrange a visit. Mom works every day and so cannot be present. She said she will tell the girl's babysitter that I will be there on Wednesday at 2.00. Needless to say, when I got to the house, no-one answered my knocking. Suddenly a man drove up in a car, looked at me, and asked what I want (in spanish.) I told him the number of the house and who I was looking for. "Mi nieta" - "my granddaughter" he said and gestured to me to follow him to another door. He went in and then came out and said to me that she is being showered and told me to go inside. In a bedroom I saw a young woman toweling off a little girl. I sat in the living room and pretty soon the young girl came in, hopping on her tiptoes. She hopped around in circles. Neither of these things are a good sign. The young woman told me the mother had not told her I would be there. The grandfather, who appeared young enough to be the father, said to me "she doesn't speak, you must help!" The following morning I went to another new referral. This one to a baby boy of 5 months. On my way to the apartments I passed the 98cent store on San Pablo and Rumrill. About three police cars with flashing lights stood in the parking lot. Two blocks later I arrived at the building, which I remembered from when I had worked in home health. I had seen a man with a dreadful degenerative disease who lived in this low-income housing building. He died. I had to call mom as there was no board with names or a keypad. Her sister came downstairs and I followed her into the building which looks like a jail. Iron bars, and badly lit concrete steps and passageways. Three women live in a crowded one-room apartment. The little boy was sleeping so mom and I filled in forms. There is no dad, whatever he was in her life, he is no longer present. He is on a marine base in San Diego. The boy was born with his cord around his neck. He presented blue and floppy and was in hospital for a week. Mom returns to work next week - she works at a gas station in San Francisco, but we have found a day for me to come, when she is not working. At least he has come to services at a very young age, so hopefully he will benefit from intervention. I have more than just three weeks! When I left an ambulance blocked the one street I was going to exit on - someone on a stretcher was being loaded in. I turned down another street and on the pavement was a body - either dead or passed out, I have no idea. A man with a shopping cart stood next to it. I was not sure what to do, but just then someone came out of a house with a phone in her hand. She was calling an ambulance. Goodness, all in the space of an hour! This is why I have not written much about work - it is rather depressing. Also, I am working on what I hope will be a book, so much of my spare time is spent writing.