Just can't sleep tonight. Two pills and I'm still wide awake. Darn it. I was falling asleep watching TV - why am I awake now? My mind isn't racing; I'm not aggravated; didn't watch something exciting..........hmm I'm re-reading a book that is pretty intense. It's my second reading of it since I need to refresh my mind before the book club meeting. But I don't remember much except general outlines of the story.
I probably shouldn't be reading it until the week before the book club or I'll forget again.
Was I always this way? I've always read a lot and made no effort to memorize books unless they were going to be on a test. But as I age, I find I can re-read the same book several times and not remember who does what - or if I remember who did what, I don't remember the outcome. I guess I can just re-read the books I have then and not keep buying new books...........like that's going to happen.
The book is called "People of the Book" and it's a well written story of a Jewish Haggadah which was written in the 1600's and you follow the history of the book by virtue of stains, tears, and oddments in the cracks and crevices of the book acquired over the years and through the book's travels.
Naturally, there are plenty of disasters. To follow the history of a Jewish book means you follow the Jewish people from one disaster to another. But it is well written and you learn something of history as you read. I like the "speaker" who is a restorer of old documents - a young woman - and you learn a lot about the whole subject of historical restoration or preservation. She, the storyteller, is a quirky and complex individual and that makes her more interesting too.
I've read several books by this writer and she is good. She manages to write books that come from different perspectives and are well researched. Her husband writes too, but he's more of a raconteur given to humor or personal insights on situations.
I did like his book on reconstructing the voyages of Captain Cook, although he went astray at some point into drinking binges with his buddy rather than staying on the Captain Cook theme. One got the feeling he got bored with the Captain and lost the thread of what he was doing.
Maybe it is the story of the haggadah which got me upset. The first story is about Sarajevo where the book was seen most recently and so there is the Moslem/Serbian
outrage around it and then it slips backward into World War II. Both violent, cruel
and genocidal. Hard not to care deeply about the children mostly - the young people whose lives are endangered or destroyed by those events.
Still, I always appreciate the involvement that a good book offers. The opportunity to sit safely at home and read about the privation and suffering of others. How selfish that sounds.
But, it is one of the things that scares me. The brutal fact that at no time, and in no place is it safe to be Jewish. That other people are as brutalized as we are h istorically doesn't make me feel any better about it. The world is a harsh place for people without power.
It makes me wonder what G-d is thinking. Or whether there is a G-d who cares. I'm inclined to think not - that whatever intelligence is out there and responsible for the universe is not one that "cares" in human terms and over human lifetimes. Maybe over geologic time...........or maybe not even that.
It always makes me think of the Star Trek episode where they try out different definitions of G-d. Is He/She an immature child who creates the earth and all on it as a toy? a plaything? Has He/She created the earth and everything on it and set it in motion and He/She will be back in a few million years to see what happens? Are we then an experiement that G-d tried to instruct historically, but has given up on?
Goes to show, it's a big mistake to try and understand the mind of G-d. As I said before, any G-d I could imagine or define, is way too small. I prefer the electricity concept. G-d is always there, if we chose to "plug"into Him/Her. But the action has to come from us.
That's not very satisfying either. I always say in my OA meetings, that you just have to pray and not worry about who is listening. And that's where I have to leave my philosophizing about G-d.
My Bat Mitzvah is more of a commitment to being Jewish and connected to that history and people than a belief in G-d - even the rabbi has said that you can pray whether or not you believe. It does serve me well at this point in my life.
I wish I could have given my children a better feeling about being Jewish. I say in my Bat Mitzvah speech that my Mom taught me about being Jewish as a blessing, not a curse - but did she? She believed in G-d, she habitually called on G-d to help, to protect ....but we never "discussed" G-d. She observed the High Holy Days because it was unthinkable not to - or Shabbat - even when it was dangerous to do. But belief.......I don't know. And Uncle Sid - he bought me the comic book with all the "Old Testament" stories in it. That's where I learned about them. It was my Sunday school. Living with Mom was my education in things Jewish - it was so intrinsic to her nature - but discuss G-d, I don't think so.
Should have labeled this rambling differently. But it's where I need it to be I guess.
Shabbat Shalom
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Crybabies
This last weekend we babysat my little granddaughter, Dahlia, for the first time overnight. She knows us well as we visit her weekly and she's always happy to see us but it was the first time away from her Mommy and Daddy overnight so there was some concern.
The parents spent one night here with her in the room so that she would feel comfortable in the house - and she's been here before.
All was well during the day - we went to the park and she played in the fountains and in the sand (becoming breaded and fried). She rode on the train on my lap - I thought I'd have to call the Fire Department to unfold me. We had fun on the toys at the park - it's a VERY good park.
But, come bedtime, there were tears - searching and calling for "Mommy and Daddy" - and although I had not been worried about my ability to handle it, there was something different about Dahlia. Other kids cry "for help"; they want to be held and comforted and I'm good at that. I will rock and cuddle for hours if necessary.
Dahlia did not want to be held. Dahlia did not want to cuddle. She wanted her Mommy and Daddy. Her crying was of a private and desperate nature. She buried her head in her pillow and her little shoulders shook in her personal grief.
I cry myself as I read this because it touched something deep inside me. I, too, was a two year seperated from my Mother and though I don't remember it, I've heard stories about my screams at the train station and clinging desperately when my Mother came to visit.
I feel sure that the Sims, while good people, did not believe in coddling or cuddling a grief stricken child. I suspect, I cried in private, alone and uncomforted by anything except the promise of return my Mother made each time.
The depth of that seperation and loss was triggered by Dahlia - I doubt she was as injured as I by the whole thing - but her grief was very real and painful to watch helplessly. She just would not accept my offer of comfort - I wonder if I, too, rejected Tanta and she was not the cold Englishwoman I portray.
I'm grateful that Kelly's suggestions of bubble bath and sleeping on the futon worked because I would have had a meltdown if I had to continue to observe this little girl in her grief.
She is so adorable, such a bright and shining little personality - and she has such depths. I hope I'm around long enough to see how she's going to turn out. She may know how to manipulate people, but I doubt her skills reach the level of intensity that this incident reflected, I think you just have to believe that she was grief stricken by the seperation but the next time will be easier.
I learn a lot from watching my grandchildren (and my children) grow and change. I look for bits of myself that might show up but mostly, they are all their own people coming from the womb with personalities already in place. It is a marvel to me to see and get to know each one. To find out if they are loving, smart, playful, whatever. And naturally, because they are "mine", they are all those things and more.
Carol asked about loving a child and how consuming she was finding it. I, too, have been consumed with loving my children and grandchildren. I'm not sure if everyone feels that way - but, for me it was a surprise. I was not a child who liked to play with dolls. I had no younger siblings to love or hate and I was not around young children. So the intensity of my emotions was a surprise - and a concern - was this normal? What is normal? How do I live with this without inhaling the children? or excluding my husband? It's still a balancing act - a source of insight, but also learning about myself and how to love and let go of those I love.
But, don't kid yourself. I may let go - but I NEVER stop loving.
The parents spent one night here with her in the room so that she would feel comfortable in the house - and she's been here before.
All was well during the day - we went to the park and she played in the fountains and in the sand (becoming breaded and fried). She rode on the train on my lap - I thought I'd have to call the Fire Department to unfold me. We had fun on the toys at the park - it's a VERY good park.
But, come bedtime, there were tears - searching and calling for "Mommy and Daddy" - and although I had not been worried about my ability to handle it, there was something different about Dahlia. Other kids cry "for help"; they want to be held and comforted and I'm good at that. I will rock and cuddle for hours if necessary.
Dahlia did not want to be held. Dahlia did not want to cuddle. She wanted her Mommy and Daddy. Her crying was of a private and desperate nature. She buried her head in her pillow and her little shoulders shook in her personal grief.
I cry myself as I read this because it touched something deep inside me. I, too, was a two year seperated from my Mother and though I don't remember it, I've heard stories about my screams at the train station and clinging desperately when my Mother came to visit.
I feel sure that the Sims, while good people, did not believe in coddling or cuddling a grief stricken child. I suspect, I cried in private, alone and uncomforted by anything except the promise of return my Mother made each time.
The depth of that seperation and loss was triggered by Dahlia - I doubt she was as injured as I by the whole thing - but her grief was very real and painful to watch helplessly. She just would not accept my offer of comfort - I wonder if I, too, rejected Tanta and she was not the cold Englishwoman I portray.
I'm grateful that Kelly's suggestions of bubble bath and sleeping on the futon worked because I would have had a meltdown if I had to continue to observe this little girl in her grief.
She is so adorable, such a bright and shining little personality - and she has such depths. I hope I'm around long enough to see how she's going to turn out. She may know how to manipulate people, but I doubt her skills reach the level of intensity that this incident reflected, I think you just have to believe that she was grief stricken by the seperation but the next time will be easier.
I learn a lot from watching my grandchildren (and my children) grow and change. I look for bits of myself that might show up but mostly, they are all their own people coming from the womb with personalities already in place. It is a marvel to me to see and get to know each one. To find out if they are loving, smart, playful, whatever. And naturally, because they are "mine", they are all those things and more.
Carol asked about loving a child and how consuming she was finding it. I, too, have been consumed with loving my children and grandchildren. I'm not sure if everyone feels that way - but, for me it was a surprise. I was not a child who liked to play with dolls. I had no younger siblings to love or hate and I was not around young children. So the intensity of my emotions was a surprise - and a concern - was this normal? What is normal? How do I live with this without inhaling the children? or excluding my husband? It's still a balancing act - a source of insight, but also learning about myself and how to love and let go of those I love.
But, don't kid yourself. I may let go - but I NEVER stop loving.
Friday, July 23, 2010
All things considered..............
Am I glad I started on this Bat Mitzvah journey? Yes and No.
I had imagined myself studying Torah and learning Hebrew with a group of like minded women. I thought they'd be spiritual and we'd share our journey. I'd learn from them and they from me.
The actuality, like most of reality, does not measure up to my expectations.
The group is 9 women (once 10) and I'm the oldest. I think I've said elsewhere they they take forever to agree on anything - if they ever do. We all have different opinions, generally voice them loudly and often push and pull to get what we want.
I'm no better than the others. I wonder if I always worked this way - less teamwork, and more bossiness?
There is one, in particular, who I have written about and she continues to be an issue. No decision is too small for her to argue about it - or want to manipulate it her way. She would be a challenge for any teacher, but for ours - who is softhearted and not well organized - she is a steamroller.
I finally had an email meltdown with the teacher - it's no good yelling or trying to discuss anything with this difficult individual - she's oblivious. But the instructor has a large hand in NOT controlling the situation, letting this individual run amuck and generally not having good boundaries. She admitted this to me and went on to tell me that it was an issue with her in other areas of her life.
My first instinct - at the beginning of the class - had been to bow out. I sensed the contentiousness and rudeness (it wasn't that hard) but was convinced to stay on and now - after 18 months - we'll have a Bat Mitzvah - and it's push and pull right up to the wire.
I know that some of the problem is me - I, too, am a controlling person and think I know better on a lot of things. But I DO TRY, honestly, to consider other people and their feelings. I try to go with the flow and make personal adjustments because it seems important to the group. But, this has become an excuse to be steam rollered.
The most recent and, I hope, last issue has been the paper insert into the prayerbook which was originally merely to list our names. This individual took it upon herself to put in everyone's picture - with herself central - and, because she says she'll pay for the differance, everyone seems to be going along with it. Oh, some individuals have balked, wanted better pictures of themself, wanted to change the order to reflect the flow of service - etc. But, for the most part, since this individual is "in charge", the only changes she's made is to correct the spelling of names where it is needed.
I had hoped that it all would be settled now that we are 3 weeks from the ceremony but it's still all very much "up in the air". The choreography is still loose and "discussable" at every session. The very clothes we are going to wear has run the gamut from everyone belligerantly wanting to "do their own thing", to all wearing the same color.
I'm just going to wear what pleases me. Not in direct confrontation with the group but because I'm tired of discussing trivia.
If we had spent anywhere near this amount of time discussing reading materials, Torah or commentaries, I would have been thrilled. Instead, we have been bogged down in what to serve - bagels, or no bagels - what to sing (the old favorite melodies, or something new - where to stand or when to sit (which should all be routine). And pictures.
This is all going to cost a whole lot more than I anticipated - from the get go - new prices and fees kept popping up. The most recent is $500 for the use of the temple - where we are all members. That surprised me - maybe I'm naive, but I thought we'd be given that without a fee. It also turns out that the cantorial soloist (who is not going to be part of the ceremony) is another $300. I don't know if the rabbi will charge for his presence. What was advertised as a flat fee for the class was the temple fee, not including $40 a month for the instructor. I wonder who was going to teach the class if that hadn't been paid!!
Also, everyone (especially me) has been very excited by the prospect of my doing this. I am happy to do it - at whatever level it has ended up being. I had NOT anticipated having a dinner at a restaurant for everyone. This was supposed to be a quiet but happy occasion. I thought my kids would be there for me - I did not expect my sisters-in-law, my niece, oooold friends from Los Angeles, and half the Sonoma County Jews.
I'm being a bitch here. But I did find that events overtook me. It's all so nice that people care though and that is very special for me and I'm happy - especially as the next big event is liable to be less than wonderful.
Oh dear, I am letting it all hang out here. But then, that's what this blog is for.
Qvetching and bitching is OK someplace in my universe.
The worst of the situation is that I explored the possibility of further study with the rabbi and he was open if I could a few other people to join in - fine - guess who is also interested in continuing her studies? I don't think I can handle a continue close involvement with this individual. In fact, she has announced that she is the cantorial soloist (for a few Fridays in the summer) but it makes me not want to come to services. I, seriously, would rather go to Chabad, or Beth Ami than sit and listen as she preens and prances and does her "solo's" (she doesn't like other to join in as they throw her off).
For a while she came to my OA meetings too. She was in my Hebrew class (which I took to improve my very slender grasp of Hebrew - she was taking it for the third time). I notice that she no longer comes to my meetings - and I don't care where she does go as long as I can meet with the women I've been meeting with for years.
I've tried praying for her - as OA recommends. I've tried seeing her point of view.
But, of course, nothing changes HER.
Maybe I should entitled this - "Don't read."
I had imagined myself studying Torah and learning Hebrew with a group of like minded women. I thought they'd be spiritual and we'd share our journey. I'd learn from them and they from me.
The actuality, like most of reality, does not measure up to my expectations.
The group is 9 women (once 10) and I'm the oldest. I think I've said elsewhere they they take forever to agree on anything - if they ever do. We all have different opinions, generally voice them loudly and often push and pull to get what we want.
I'm no better than the others. I wonder if I always worked this way - less teamwork, and more bossiness?
There is one, in particular, who I have written about and she continues to be an issue. No decision is too small for her to argue about it - or want to manipulate it her way. She would be a challenge for any teacher, but for ours - who is softhearted and not well organized - she is a steamroller.
I finally had an email meltdown with the teacher - it's no good yelling or trying to discuss anything with this difficult individual - she's oblivious. But the instructor has a large hand in NOT controlling the situation, letting this individual run amuck and generally not having good boundaries. She admitted this to me and went on to tell me that it was an issue with her in other areas of her life.
My first instinct - at the beginning of the class - had been to bow out. I sensed the contentiousness and rudeness (it wasn't that hard) but was convinced to stay on and now - after 18 months - we'll have a Bat Mitzvah - and it's push and pull right up to the wire.
I know that some of the problem is me - I, too, am a controlling person and think I know better on a lot of things. But I DO TRY, honestly, to consider other people and their feelings. I try to go with the flow and make personal adjustments because it seems important to the group. But, this has become an excuse to be steam rollered.
The most recent and, I hope, last issue has been the paper insert into the prayerbook which was originally merely to list our names. This individual took it upon herself to put in everyone's picture - with herself central - and, because she says she'll pay for the differance, everyone seems to be going along with it. Oh, some individuals have balked, wanted better pictures of themself, wanted to change the order to reflect the flow of service - etc. But, for the most part, since this individual is "in charge", the only changes she's made is to correct the spelling of names where it is needed.
I had hoped that it all would be settled now that we are 3 weeks from the ceremony but it's still all very much "up in the air". The choreography is still loose and "discussable" at every session. The very clothes we are going to wear has run the gamut from everyone belligerantly wanting to "do their own thing", to all wearing the same color.
I'm just going to wear what pleases me. Not in direct confrontation with the group but because I'm tired of discussing trivia.
If we had spent anywhere near this amount of time discussing reading materials, Torah or commentaries, I would have been thrilled. Instead, we have been bogged down in what to serve - bagels, or no bagels - what to sing (the old favorite melodies, or something new - where to stand or when to sit (which should all be routine). And pictures.
This is all going to cost a whole lot more than I anticipated - from the get go - new prices and fees kept popping up. The most recent is $500 for the use of the temple - where we are all members. That surprised me - maybe I'm naive, but I thought we'd be given that without a fee. It also turns out that the cantorial soloist (who is not going to be part of the ceremony) is another $300. I don't know if the rabbi will charge for his presence. What was advertised as a flat fee for the class was the temple fee, not including $40 a month for the instructor. I wonder who was going to teach the class if that hadn't been paid!!
Also, everyone (especially me) has been very excited by the prospect of my doing this. I am happy to do it - at whatever level it has ended up being. I had NOT anticipated having a dinner at a restaurant for everyone. This was supposed to be a quiet but happy occasion. I thought my kids would be there for me - I did not expect my sisters-in-law, my niece, oooold friends from Los Angeles, and half the Sonoma County Jews.
I'm being a bitch here. But I did find that events overtook me. It's all so nice that people care though and that is very special for me and I'm happy - especially as the next big event is liable to be less than wonderful.
Oh dear, I am letting it all hang out here. But then, that's what this blog is for.
Qvetching and bitching is OK someplace in my universe.
The worst of the situation is that I explored the possibility of further study with the rabbi and he was open if I could a few other people to join in - fine - guess who is also interested in continuing her studies? I don't think I can handle a continue close involvement with this individual. In fact, she has announced that she is the cantorial soloist (for a few Fridays in the summer) but it makes me not want to come to services. I, seriously, would rather go to Chabad, or Beth Ami than sit and listen as she preens and prances and does her "solo's" (she doesn't like other to join in as they throw her off).
For a while she came to my OA meetings too. She was in my Hebrew class (which I took to improve my very slender grasp of Hebrew - she was taking it for the third time). I notice that she no longer comes to my meetings - and I don't care where she does go as long as I can meet with the women I've been meeting with for years.
I've tried praying for her - as OA recommends. I've tried seeing her point of view.
But, of course, nothing changes HER.
Maybe I should entitled this - "Don't read."
Sunday, July 18, 2010
My Mother's Stories
Another sleepless night.
My mind turns to my Mom. She's been gone for 11 years now and sometimes, like tonight, I miss her more than I did when she died or during the years when her mind was gone and she was not there - although her body still was.
Her stories resonate in me now, even more than they did when I was a child.
We left Germany when I was two. My Father had left the year before and gone to England to help build a refugee camp. My Mother had a visa for England that was to work as a housemaid. It was her ticket out!
The story that made me cry tonight - again - was of the train ride from Berlin to the harbor where we were to catch a ship for England. The train was full of women and children and it was late at night, the children for the most part sleeping. The train stopped at some town along the way and Nazi soldiers boarded the train and herded the women off onto the platform "to check their papers". My Mother said she held back, stayed near the train steps in case I woke and cried. The train started to move, to leave and she and some other mothers leapt aboard. Not all of the Mothers made it back onto the train.
I asked her - "What happened to the children whose Mother's didn't get back on board?" She cried. She didn't know. But I knew - I knew they had been "lost", abandoned, alone. I know now - they were probably killed. Back then I just knew how it felt to be lost and it frightened the hell out of me.
All children fear getting lost - but I think I came from a generation of children for whom the reality of that was a terrible fear. I remember clutching my Mother's hand tightly whenever we went anywhere and I remember hanging onto her purse strap feeling it's reassuring squeak of leather as we walked. I still have that purse. It contained our lives - our papers....our safety. If we got seperated, even momentarily in a store or street, I would totally dissolve.
In England, my Mother got a job as a housemaid, but naturally they didn't want a 2 year old hanging about. The authorities told Mom she had to take a job or get sent back to Germany. So Bloomsbury House came into the picture. They handled the children from the Kindertransport and found them homes, and they found the Sims for me.
My Mother told of meeting Mr. Sims at the train station - she not speaking English, he not speaking any German. She handed me over, screaming my 2 year old head off she said. She gave him my suitcase. And off we went, going our seperate ways.
How do you explain this to a two year old? Could Dahlia understand if we told her?
I just knew I was lost. I think I concluded that I wasn't loved enough, or good enough for my Mother to keep me. I certainly knew the Sims weren't my family and didn't love me. Certainly not as much as they loved my foster sister, Miriam. I still have a picture taken of the two of us. Miriam must have been 2 and I, about 3.
I remember thinking when that picture was taken that I was not the favored child.
They weren't unkind - although Mr. Sims had a fearful temper. They were just English. I remember sitting on Tanta's lap (as I called her) and wishing she'd hold me close, but I was waaay out there on her knees. I knew I couldn't get closer. It wasn't done.
I remember being in a dark room, in a crib and hearing a baby cry and cry. It was a familiar scene in my mind. Suddenly I thought "Oh, that's me." and the crying stopped. I think that Miriam and I both cried a lot and no-one came.
Years later, my Mother discovered that if she sang "Brahms Lullaby" in German to me I would dissolve into tears. It was a song she had sung to me as a baby - and I didn't know why it made me cry. I think my tears reassured her that I had missed her and still loved her. She would do it periodically to see if it still worked. I think she must have felt guilty about leaving me and worried that I was unforgiving or loved her less.
Somewhere I still have a little wooden child's wall hanging of Dumbo from the Disney movie. I think that must have hung on the wall in Germany because it hung on the wall in England and I loved it. The story of Dumbo resonated with me a lot - if you remember, Dumbo could not "get" to his Mother because she was imprisoned. He was alone and lonely and the other animals cared for him and gave him emotional support.
I always wished that I had some friends or animals who would love me the way Dumbo was loved.
When Mom got old and had dementia, she revealed to me her guilt at leaving her Mother and sister in Germany. She had kept it hidden from me - although I knew there was some terrible grief there. Letters stopped coming from them and my Mother was frantic to find them or hear from them. I found letters from the Red Cross among her things dated 1942 saying no word could be found of their location.
I think Mom destroyed her letters during those dementia years. She used to read and re-read letters from her sister and letters my Father had sent to her from England. He missed her and there were loving terms in them - but when she died, I could not find them. They were hers and it was her right to destroy them, but I would have loved to have them.
As Mom got older and less and less competent, I realized that one day I would have nothing of her to hold and remember her with. Nothing tangible. I saved some cuttings of her hair one day when I was visiting the convalescent hospital. And that's all I have of her. I saved some of her clothes, but the scent of my Mother is gone from them. When I was little, that scent was so reassuring. She smelled of cooking, baking, starched clothes, powder, love.
My memories go back a long way. I don't remember Germany, but I remember living with the Sims in Whitchurch. I remember my Mother coming to visit - infrequently it seemed. I felt lonely a lot yet, I think they read to me and I found a happy escape in stories. I remember watching the fire in the fireplace and making up fairy stories or princess stories in the fire. I remember having a very active mind for a two year old. I remember my third birthday - which I spent with my Mother.
I remember Miriam's grandmother and aunt who came to visit us in Whitchurch - but there was no question of their being a surrogate family for me. There was also a creepy boarder in the house who watched me with black, unfriendly eyes. I avoided him like the plague. I think his name was Stanley - and many, many years later Miriam told me that her Mother (Tanta) had had an affair with him and her sister, Ruth, who was born after I left their house, was his daughter. But all that went over my head at the time.
So those are some of my memories of England and my Mother. They don't stay buried, but surface to haunt me when I can't sleep.
My mind turns to my Mom. She's been gone for 11 years now and sometimes, like tonight, I miss her more than I did when she died or during the years when her mind was gone and she was not there - although her body still was.
Her stories resonate in me now, even more than they did when I was a child.
We left Germany when I was two. My Father had left the year before and gone to England to help build a refugee camp. My Mother had a visa for England that was to work as a housemaid. It was her ticket out!
The story that made me cry tonight - again - was of the train ride from Berlin to the harbor where we were to catch a ship for England. The train was full of women and children and it was late at night, the children for the most part sleeping. The train stopped at some town along the way and Nazi soldiers boarded the train and herded the women off onto the platform "to check their papers". My Mother said she held back, stayed near the train steps in case I woke and cried. The train started to move, to leave and she and some other mothers leapt aboard. Not all of the Mothers made it back onto the train.
I asked her - "What happened to the children whose Mother's didn't get back on board?" She cried. She didn't know. But I knew - I knew they had been "lost", abandoned, alone. I know now - they were probably killed. Back then I just knew how it felt to be lost and it frightened the hell out of me.
All children fear getting lost - but I think I came from a generation of children for whom the reality of that was a terrible fear. I remember clutching my Mother's hand tightly whenever we went anywhere and I remember hanging onto her purse strap feeling it's reassuring squeak of leather as we walked. I still have that purse. It contained our lives - our papers....our safety. If we got seperated, even momentarily in a store or street, I would totally dissolve.
In England, my Mother got a job as a housemaid, but naturally they didn't want a 2 year old hanging about. The authorities told Mom she had to take a job or get sent back to Germany. So Bloomsbury House came into the picture. They handled the children from the Kindertransport and found them homes, and they found the Sims for me.
My Mother told of meeting Mr. Sims at the train station - she not speaking English, he not speaking any German. She handed me over, screaming my 2 year old head off she said. She gave him my suitcase. And off we went, going our seperate ways.
How do you explain this to a two year old? Could Dahlia understand if we told her?
I just knew I was lost. I think I concluded that I wasn't loved enough, or good enough for my Mother to keep me. I certainly knew the Sims weren't my family and didn't love me. Certainly not as much as they loved my foster sister, Miriam. I still have a picture taken of the two of us. Miriam must have been 2 and I, about 3.
I remember thinking when that picture was taken that I was not the favored child.
They weren't unkind - although Mr. Sims had a fearful temper. They were just English. I remember sitting on Tanta's lap (as I called her) and wishing she'd hold me close, but I was waaay out there on her knees. I knew I couldn't get closer. It wasn't done.
I remember being in a dark room, in a crib and hearing a baby cry and cry. It was a familiar scene in my mind. Suddenly I thought "Oh, that's me." and the crying stopped. I think that Miriam and I both cried a lot and no-one came.
Years later, my Mother discovered that if she sang "Brahms Lullaby" in German to me I would dissolve into tears. It was a song she had sung to me as a baby - and I didn't know why it made me cry. I think my tears reassured her that I had missed her and still loved her. She would do it periodically to see if it still worked. I think she must have felt guilty about leaving me and worried that I was unforgiving or loved her less.
Somewhere I still have a little wooden child's wall hanging of Dumbo from the Disney movie. I think that must have hung on the wall in Germany because it hung on the wall in England and I loved it. The story of Dumbo resonated with me a lot - if you remember, Dumbo could not "get" to his Mother because she was imprisoned. He was alone and lonely and the other animals cared for him and gave him emotional support.
I always wished that I had some friends or animals who would love me the way Dumbo was loved.
When Mom got old and had dementia, she revealed to me her guilt at leaving her Mother and sister in Germany. She had kept it hidden from me - although I knew there was some terrible grief there. Letters stopped coming from them and my Mother was frantic to find them or hear from them. I found letters from the Red Cross among her things dated 1942 saying no word could be found of their location.
I think Mom destroyed her letters during those dementia years. She used to read and re-read letters from her sister and letters my Father had sent to her from England. He missed her and there were loving terms in them - but when she died, I could not find them. They were hers and it was her right to destroy them, but I would have loved to have them.
As Mom got older and less and less competent, I realized that one day I would have nothing of her to hold and remember her with. Nothing tangible. I saved some cuttings of her hair one day when I was visiting the convalescent hospital. And that's all I have of her. I saved some of her clothes, but the scent of my Mother is gone from them. When I was little, that scent was so reassuring. She smelled of cooking, baking, starched clothes, powder, love.
My memories go back a long way. I don't remember Germany, but I remember living with the Sims in Whitchurch. I remember my Mother coming to visit - infrequently it seemed. I felt lonely a lot yet, I think they read to me and I found a happy escape in stories. I remember watching the fire in the fireplace and making up fairy stories or princess stories in the fire. I remember having a very active mind for a two year old. I remember my third birthday - which I spent with my Mother.
I remember Miriam's grandmother and aunt who came to visit us in Whitchurch - but there was no question of their being a surrogate family for me. There was also a creepy boarder in the house who watched me with black, unfriendly eyes. I avoided him like the plague. I think his name was Stanley - and many, many years later Miriam told me that her Mother (Tanta) had had an affair with him and her sister, Ruth, who was born after I left their house, was his daughter. But all that went over my head at the time.
So those are some of my memories of England and my Mother. They don't stay buried, but surface to haunt me when I can't sleep.
Friday, July 16, 2010
As the World Turns
Today is my birthday - my 73rd to be precise.
It seems I ought to have some wisdom to impart or some thoughts to share but mostly what I feel is a sadness for how quickly time passes.
Yesterday I took Dahlia to a play area where, among the choices of things to do, was a music area and they were playing "Puff, the Magic Dragon" for the kids. Unexpectedly, I started to cry. What was there about that song that suddenly made me so sad? I had always felt sorry for Puff when "Little Jackie Paper" got too old to go play with him. But here I was, too old to play with my grandchild - time had passed ME by.
I remember singing that song to my kids - little kids - and not so long ago. Somehow, I never thought of MY aging - just the kids growing up and moving on. But yesterday, I cried for me. I cried because I don't want to be this old lady - I want to be the busy, young matron with young kids to ferry around, the lady with boundless energy, and busy hands. I want to trip lightly down the stairs and dance the hora at weddings. I had not planned on being an old lady.
Not, you understand, that I want to die. I just don't want to age. I've fought it - denied it - and tried to be graceful about accepting it. But here and now, I'm not accepting it, I'm not gracefully aging, and I'm scared to be an old lady.
I'm like my Mom - I HATE using a cane, I HATE depending on a walker. Doesn't everyone? All those years of nursing, how did those patients feel about the various devices they were forced to use to function? Did I assume they chose that way of life? Did I think they were happy campers not to be able to take care of themselves? Did I think at all?
Here I thought I was a sensitive and caring nurse attuned to my patients feelings.
And all the time I was - what? oblivious? insensitive?
Is that what happens to people? A useful ignorance - an obliging amnesia.
Oh, I argue with myself. It's better to be alive than not. I'm lucky to have made it this far. Look at all the people older than myself who are not complaining - like it would do them any good to complain. No-one likes a whiner. No-one - especially young people like to hear and be reminded of the facts of aging (never mind that they don't believe they actually will - age that is.) Look at all the Baby Boomers who are trying to pretend they aren't going to age like their parents and grandparents. How different are they from me? Not.......
OK, I get it. It's reality. Change is what happens while you aren't looking - and even if you are. So it's pointless to blather on about how I don't like it - how I'm scared about the future and counting the potential years - will I live long enough to see Mia graduate from college? Or Micah get Bar Mitzvah'd. Hell, will I make it to breakfast tomorrow?
But, for right now, it's Happy Birthday (and be glad you have one).
It seems I ought to have some wisdom to impart or some thoughts to share but mostly what I feel is a sadness for how quickly time passes.
Yesterday I took Dahlia to a play area where, among the choices of things to do, was a music area and they were playing "Puff, the Magic Dragon" for the kids. Unexpectedly, I started to cry. What was there about that song that suddenly made me so sad? I had always felt sorry for Puff when "Little Jackie Paper" got too old to go play with him. But here I was, too old to play with my grandchild - time had passed ME by.
I remember singing that song to my kids - little kids - and not so long ago. Somehow, I never thought of MY aging - just the kids growing up and moving on. But yesterday, I cried for me. I cried because I don't want to be this old lady - I want to be the busy, young matron with young kids to ferry around, the lady with boundless energy, and busy hands. I want to trip lightly down the stairs and dance the hora at weddings. I had not planned on being an old lady.
Not, you understand, that I want to die. I just don't want to age. I've fought it - denied it - and tried to be graceful about accepting it. But here and now, I'm not accepting it, I'm not gracefully aging, and I'm scared to be an old lady.
I'm like my Mom - I HATE using a cane, I HATE depending on a walker. Doesn't everyone? All those years of nursing, how did those patients feel about the various devices they were forced to use to function? Did I assume they chose that way of life? Did I think they were happy campers not to be able to take care of themselves? Did I think at all?
Here I thought I was a sensitive and caring nurse attuned to my patients feelings.
And all the time I was - what? oblivious? insensitive?
Is that what happens to people? A useful ignorance - an obliging amnesia.
Oh, I argue with myself. It's better to be alive than not. I'm lucky to have made it this far. Look at all the people older than myself who are not complaining - like it would do them any good to complain. No-one likes a whiner. No-one - especially young people like to hear and be reminded of the facts of aging (never mind that they don't believe they actually will - age that is.) Look at all the Baby Boomers who are trying to pretend they aren't going to age like their parents and grandparents. How different are they from me? Not.......
OK, I get it. It's reality. Change is what happens while you aren't looking - and even if you are. So it's pointless to blather on about how I don't like it - how I'm scared about the future and counting the potential years - will I live long enough to see Mia graduate from college? Or Micah get Bar Mitzvah'd. Hell, will I make it to breakfast tomorrow?
But, for right now, it's Happy Birthday (and be glad you have one).
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Reading lists
I started thinking about how many books I've read in my life. A LOT!! I wish I could remember them all. I learned to read when I was about 5 and have loved it ever since.
I read everything I could get my hands on - appropriate or not.
Near my home in England, there was an American soldier's camp. They were black soldiers and that confused me somewhat as, in the movies, Americans were white. But they were nice to us. We were nice to them. We had one or two over for dinner and they brought me books. I think they were Mickey Spillane books, but I didn't care.
I did have a little trouble with some of the Americanisms - for the life of me, I could never figure out what "going on the lam" was about. I figured it probably meant running away, but that was from context. From meaning, it was a total loss.
When we came to the United States, the first thing I did was get a library card. I have no idea how I knew about such a thing, but since both my parents worked, I was alone a lot, especially during the summers. Every week, I trudged to the local library and got 10 books, and every week, I took them back all read and took out another 10 books.
They had basket of key rings with cards that grouped similar books together so I read them all - in all the categories. American history, Indian (now Native American) stories, adventure stories, girl's stories, boy's stories. You name it.
In the school year, my reading slowed down as I did have to do school work but I managed to get a lot of reading done, under the covers with a flashlight.
Once I started working at the dime store, it was harder, but I still managed to get quite a few books read.
In nursing school I must have read hundreds of Harlequins. Embarrassing as it is, I loved those romance novels. All pretty much the same - easy reading and so relaxing.
A good escape from a pretty intense studying time. I had boxes and boxes of them to give away when we moved to Northern California. I gave away 12 boxes of non-Harlequin books but I couldn't part with the textbooks (which, of course, I hardly ever read or refer to).
Nowadays, I buy my books from Amazon "used books" - some as little as 1 cent. If I like them I have a hard time parting with them and they stack up - I think I have bookcases in every room except the bathrooms and I'd have them there if there were space. Every once in a while, I donate a bag of the least enjoyable books to the library for their book sale - or I "sell" some of the paperbacks back to the used paperback book store not far from my house. But I average about 3 books a week, unless I've found some 500 page ones I love and that might take a bit longer.
In 1981 we visited England - especially to see my foster Father. My foster Mother had died the year before and I suddenly realized that people in England weren't frozen in time and I'd better go visit before it was too late.
My Foster Father, Mr. Sims, lived by himself in a cottage that was wall to wall books. There were pathways to the kitchen, and to the bathroom but virtually every space was taken up by books. The stairs were lined with books and it was difficult to go upstairs - indeed I don't think he did. He gave me a couple of books he thought I would enjoy - they are here somewhere. But I think I caught the book bug from him. I vaguely remember being read to in his house - Water Babies, I think it was - and I loved those books. If that's so - that I learned to love books from him, I owe him a debt of gratitude beyond my survival. And I realize how hard it was for him to part with any one of them - so that gift was especially touching.
I love to find an author whose writing gives me pleasure and then I'll read everything he/she has ever written. I get on kicks and read everything I can about, say, the Crusades, or Alexander the Great (I do love history). Recently, I've been on a Edward IV and Richard III kick and there are some real gems written about them.
There is a series of books called the Morland series which are books which follow an English family for 500 years. Each book has a good bit of historic research in it and some family stories. I think there are about 35 books in that series and the author has slowed down. The last four books have been on WWI.
I wrote the author and told her to go back and fill in some of the earlier periods as there were 300 year jumps back then. She answered me and said she had contracted to write these with another writer and somehow was not allowed to "go back". I think it's a mistake on the publisher's part. By now she has loyal fans, all lined up waiting for the next book.
I've got Toni hooked on them and my friend, Myra. And now Myra is picking up book one, for another mutual friend. As long as I get them back, I don't much care - I enjoy sharing them with others.
In recent years, I read more non-fiction too. I've read my way through everything ever writen (well, maybe not) on the American Civil War - we went to Gettysburg and that was a big thrill because I knew (at that time) every nuance of the battles. I read a lot about the French Revolution at one point - until I became sickened by it.
I read everything I could find on the Founding Fathers, and I love Benjamin Franklin (I think he might have been a Time Traveler) and I was very angry with Thomas Jefferson (that hypocrite). John Adams was my favorite - cranky, short tempered, politically incorrect, dangerously revolutionary... well, I liked him.
I have my favorite writers and I'm guilty of writing in the margins - sometimes arguing with the writer, sometimes just making comments. Constantine's Sword - which I've had a hard time getting through is just laced with nasty remarks from me. Which is one of the reasons I have to buy books. I could never deface a library book that way.
I read science fiction a lot when I was in Junior High School and spent every spare nickel on Sci Fi magazines. Oh, if I only had them now, they'd be worth a pretty penny. I think for me, they were an extension of the fairy tales I enjoyed as a kid.
But then, I really love a science fiction that can build a perfectly believable world that "fits" together but in an entirely different galaxy. There, too, I've chugged my way through authors until they lose their way. A common problem for authors it seems.
I also love mysteries, and went through dozens of books by each author. It seems mystery authors do write books by the dozen. I enjoy English cosies - especially if they have the "feeling" of England I remember. Of course, the England I remember is not the gritty place of the present. It's more of a village world - but that's where we lived - in an English village.
I also have read a lot of biology and gone through a bunch of evolutionary discussions and explanations. I've read books about studying biology and I'm in awe of those devoted and compulsive scientists who live in the wild, battling extremes of temperatures to study some obscure little creature - and I'm impressed with their wives who go along for the ride.
This last year was the year of the Holocaust. At 72, I finally decided to face it and gradually built up to reading some really painful, wrenching books about it.
I had started off with finding a book of William Shirer's radio broadcasts from Berlin in the '30's and that interested me as it was my parent's time. From there I read his "Rise and Fall of the Third Reich" and I was off and running.
Nothing I've read about the Third Reich explains how this could have happened. In vain, the authors document the step by step approaches in the early thirties, which gradually led to the mass "liquidation" of six million people in an organized factory like fashion. I guess, it will never make sense to me. And I can only read so much - and then my brain gets fried.
Currently I'm reading a book called "Amish Grace" which "explains" how the Amish can forgive - in this case - a heinous crime against their children. They forgave, with almost indecent haste, the killer of those children. It's a very Christian book and I just don't relate to the concept of forgiving so that I will be forgiven by G-d.
Which is the basic premise of their forgiveness philosophy.
In the first place, I haven't ever done anything near the magnitude of the Nazi's for which I need to be forgiven. I think I kicked the dog once. I step on snails where-
ever I find them....but I don't think they are talking of that level of forgiveness.
It's one of those cases where the basic psychology eludes me. But I am looking for ways to forgive without condoning - because carrying the anger and pain hurts ME - not them. And because I truthfully think it's sick to carry hatred and revenge in my heart on and on into the second and third generation. As I've said before - how does that make me any different then from the Christians who punish the Jews for the supposed sins of the Fathers - 2000 years ago?
I've read other books about forgiveness and the authors, geniuses though they may be, have yet to make a persuasive case or method - for that matter - of forgiving. My trip to Berlin helped me - forgiving is not condoning - it's not a pardon.....but that's as far as I've got.
So books have always been a wonderful escape for me. I live in other worlds, other times, other bodies. Nowadays, I definitely need to live in another body. Preferably, Superwoman's. But I'd take Ma Kettle, if I didn't have to hurt.
So right now, I'm looking for a new author - a new interest. Something will pop up and G-d willing I'll be off and running again.
I read everything I could get my hands on - appropriate or not.
Near my home in England, there was an American soldier's camp. They were black soldiers and that confused me somewhat as, in the movies, Americans were white. But they were nice to us. We were nice to them. We had one or two over for dinner and they brought me books. I think they were Mickey Spillane books, but I didn't care.
I did have a little trouble with some of the Americanisms - for the life of me, I could never figure out what "going on the lam" was about. I figured it probably meant running away, but that was from context. From meaning, it was a total loss.
When we came to the United States, the first thing I did was get a library card. I have no idea how I knew about such a thing, but since both my parents worked, I was alone a lot, especially during the summers. Every week, I trudged to the local library and got 10 books, and every week, I took them back all read and took out another 10 books.
They had basket of key rings with cards that grouped similar books together so I read them all - in all the categories. American history, Indian (now Native American) stories, adventure stories, girl's stories, boy's stories. You name it.
In the school year, my reading slowed down as I did have to do school work but I managed to get a lot of reading done, under the covers with a flashlight.
Once I started working at the dime store, it was harder, but I still managed to get quite a few books read.
In nursing school I must have read hundreds of Harlequins. Embarrassing as it is, I loved those romance novels. All pretty much the same - easy reading and so relaxing.
A good escape from a pretty intense studying time. I had boxes and boxes of them to give away when we moved to Northern California. I gave away 12 boxes of non-Harlequin books but I couldn't part with the textbooks (which, of course, I hardly ever read or refer to).
Nowadays, I buy my books from Amazon "used books" - some as little as 1 cent. If I like them I have a hard time parting with them and they stack up - I think I have bookcases in every room except the bathrooms and I'd have them there if there were space. Every once in a while, I donate a bag of the least enjoyable books to the library for their book sale - or I "sell" some of the paperbacks back to the used paperback book store not far from my house. But I average about 3 books a week, unless I've found some 500 page ones I love and that might take a bit longer.
In 1981 we visited England - especially to see my foster Father. My foster Mother had died the year before and I suddenly realized that people in England weren't frozen in time and I'd better go visit before it was too late.
My Foster Father, Mr. Sims, lived by himself in a cottage that was wall to wall books. There were pathways to the kitchen, and to the bathroom but virtually every space was taken up by books. The stairs were lined with books and it was difficult to go upstairs - indeed I don't think he did. He gave me a couple of books he thought I would enjoy - they are here somewhere. But I think I caught the book bug from him. I vaguely remember being read to in his house - Water Babies, I think it was - and I loved those books. If that's so - that I learned to love books from him, I owe him a debt of gratitude beyond my survival. And I realize how hard it was for him to part with any one of them - so that gift was especially touching.
I love to find an author whose writing gives me pleasure and then I'll read everything he/she has ever written. I get on kicks and read everything I can about, say, the Crusades, or Alexander the Great (I do love history). Recently, I've been on a Edward IV and Richard III kick and there are some real gems written about them.
There is a series of books called the Morland series which are books which follow an English family for 500 years. Each book has a good bit of historic research in it and some family stories. I think there are about 35 books in that series and the author has slowed down. The last four books have been on WWI.
I wrote the author and told her to go back and fill in some of the earlier periods as there were 300 year jumps back then. She answered me and said she had contracted to write these with another writer and somehow was not allowed to "go back". I think it's a mistake on the publisher's part. By now she has loyal fans, all lined up waiting for the next book.
I've got Toni hooked on them and my friend, Myra. And now Myra is picking up book one, for another mutual friend. As long as I get them back, I don't much care - I enjoy sharing them with others.
In recent years, I read more non-fiction too. I've read my way through everything ever writen (well, maybe not) on the American Civil War - we went to Gettysburg and that was a big thrill because I knew (at that time) every nuance of the battles. I read a lot about the French Revolution at one point - until I became sickened by it.
I read everything I could find on the Founding Fathers, and I love Benjamin Franklin (I think he might have been a Time Traveler) and I was very angry with Thomas Jefferson (that hypocrite). John Adams was my favorite - cranky, short tempered, politically incorrect, dangerously revolutionary... well, I liked him.
I have my favorite writers and I'm guilty of writing in the margins - sometimes arguing with the writer, sometimes just making comments. Constantine's Sword - which I've had a hard time getting through is just laced with nasty remarks from me. Which is one of the reasons I have to buy books. I could never deface a library book that way.
I read science fiction a lot when I was in Junior High School and spent every spare nickel on Sci Fi magazines. Oh, if I only had them now, they'd be worth a pretty penny. I think for me, they were an extension of the fairy tales I enjoyed as a kid.
But then, I really love a science fiction that can build a perfectly believable world that "fits" together but in an entirely different galaxy. There, too, I've chugged my way through authors until they lose their way. A common problem for authors it seems.
I also love mysteries, and went through dozens of books by each author. It seems mystery authors do write books by the dozen. I enjoy English cosies - especially if they have the "feeling" of England I remember. Of course, the England I remember is not the gritty place of the present. It's more of a village world - but that's where we lived - in an English village.
I also have read a lot of biology and gone through a bunch of evolutionary discussions and explanations. I've read books about studying biology and I'm in awe of those devoted and compulsive scientists who live in the wild, battling extremes of temperatures to study some obscure little creature - and I'm impressed with their wives who go along for the ride.
This last year was the year of the Holocaust. At 72, I finally decided to face it and gradually built up to reading some really painful, wrenching books about it.
I had started off with finding a book of William Shirer's radio broadcasts from Berlin in the '30's and that interested me as it was my parent's time. From there I read his "Rise and Fall of the Third Reich" and I was off and running.
Nothing I've read about the Third Reich explains how this could have happened. In vain, the authors document the step by step approaches in the early thirties, which gradually led to the mass "liquidation" of six million people in an organized factory like fashion. I guess, it will never make sense to me. And I can only read so much - and then my brain gets fried.
Currently I'm reading a book called "Amish Grace" which "explains" how the Amish can forgive - in this case - a heinous crime against their children. They forgave, with almost indecent haste, the killer of those children. It's a very Christian book and I just don't relate to the concept of forgiving so that I will be forgiven by G-d.
Which is the basic premise of their forgiveness philosophy.
In the first place, I haven't ever done anything near the magnitude of the Nazi's for which I need to be forgiven. I think I kicked the dog once. I step on snails where-
ever I find them....but I don't think they are talking of that level of forgiveness.
It's one of those cases where the basic psychology eludes me. But I am looking for ways to forgive without condoning - because carrying the anger and pain hurts ME - not them. And because I truthfully think it's sick to carry hatred and revenge in my heart on and on into the second and third generation. As I've said before - how does that make me any different then from the Christians who punish the Jews for the supposed sins of the Fathers - 2000 years ago?
I've read other books about forgiveness and the authors, geniuses though they may be, have yet to make a persuasive case or method - for that matter - of forgiving. My trip to Berlin helped me - forgiving is not condoning - it's not a pardon.....but that's as far as I've got.
So books have always been a wonderful escape for me. I live in other worlds, other times, other bodies. Nowadays, I definitely need to live in another body. Preferably, Superwoman's. But I'd take Ma Kettle, if I didn't have to hurt.
So right now, I'm looking for a new author - a new interest. Something will pop up and G-d willing I'll be off and running again.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Trying to Understand
Seems like I've got lots to consider and work through about that trip to Germany.
Their generosity and warmth were genuine, I think. It's their past I have to digest
and find it's like a lump of coal in my gut.
I have this need to understand. How can the Holocaust happen? Why do human beings do things like this? And it's not just the Jews - although that one was a biggie. It's Rwanda, and Northern Ireland. Bosnia and Somalia.
It's easier to label the latter places as ignorant, backward, illiterate, savage etc.
They all have long histories of conflict, rarely have had times of peace and prosperity. Riven by warring tribes, religions, cultural differances.........all explanations that "make sense" although the violence doesn't. But there seems to be an understandable component which is lacking in the German story.
Maybe I haven't read enough. Maybe I don't know what the German concept of Jews was before.........before what? I know that even in the Middle Ages, Jews were outsiders
in Europe. I know that the Crusaders traveling through Europe killed as many Jews as they could find in preparation for the Holy Land. I know that the Roman Empire ultimately lead by Constantine converted to Christianity and the Jews were objects of hate because they hadn't converted.
So when exactly did all this begin?
If you read "Constantine's Sword" - it began with the disciples of Jesus. It began with St. Paul. Hard for me to imagine how a church based on love, peace, hope of redemption could act in the manner of despots and isolate and kill people for not agreeing with them but historically that was true and not just the Jews. Various Christian sects who didn't go along with the "party line" got wiped out too.
But, I still don't understand the human nature of the intimate death. The killing of neighbors, friends, work associates, school friends......and historically that has happened and in the present that has happened. Look at Ireland. Look at Bosnia.
It doesn't say much for human nature. It doesn't say much for the tempering of religion. Fundamentalists everywhere preach death, destruction and the worthlessness of the "infidel" - the non-humantiy of the "infidel"...and I don't mean that in an exclusive Moslem way although the word comes from there - it covers the labeling of human beings as being "less than" and not worthy of life.
Ah well, I'm not going to resolve these problems here. I'm just "trying to understand".
Their generosity and warmth were genuine, I think. It's their past I have to digest
and find it's like a lump of coal in my gut.
I have this need to understand. How can the Holocaust happen? Why do human beings do things like this? And it's not just the Jews - although that one was a biggie. It's Rwanda, and Northern Ireland. Bosnia and Somalia.
It's easier to label the latter places as ignorant, backward, illiterate, savage etc.
They all have long histories of conflict, rarely have had times of peace and prosperity. Riven by warring tribes, religions, cultural differances.........all explanations that "make sense" although the violence doesn't. But there seems to be an understandable component which is lacking in the German story.
Maybe I haven't read enough. Maybe I don't know what the German concept of Jews was before.........before what? I know that even in the Middle Ages, Jews were outsiders
in Europe. I know that the Crusaders traveling through Europe killed as many Jews as they could find in preparation for the Holy Land. I know that the Roman Empire ultimately lead by Constantine converted to Christianity and the Jews were objects of hate because they hadn't converted.
So when exactly did all this begin?
If you read "Constantine's Sword" - it began with the disciples of Jesus. It began with St. Paul. Hard for me to imagine how a church based on love, peace, hope of redemption could act in the manner of despots and isolate and kill people for not agreeing with them but historically that was true and not just the Jews. Various Christian sects who didn't go along with the "party line" got wiped out too.
But, I still don't understand the human nature of the intimate death. The killing of neighbors, friends, work associates, school friends......and historically that has happened and in the present that has happened. Look at Ireland. Look at Bosnia.
It doesn't say much for human nature. It doesn't say much for the tempering of religion. Fundamentalists everywhere preach death, destruction and the worthlessness of the "infidel" - the non-humantiy of the "infidel"...and I don't mean that in an exclusive Moslem way although the word comes from there - it covers the labeling of human beings as being "less than" and not worthy of life.
Ah well, I'm not going to resolve these problems here. I'm just "trying to understand".
Sunday, July 4, 2010
When Wishes Come True
For a long time now, my daughter and two oldest grandchildren have lived far, far away in Texas.
There were good reasons for them going there and good reasons for them staying, but it was a great loss for me as we, my husband and myself, had visited those two grandchildren weekly for 10 years. And then they were far, far away and twice a year visits were the best we could do.
I did what I could to maintain contact - to try to stay up-to-date with their lives but young children are not famous for "chatting" with elderly relatives about the trivia that makes up their lives - the books they read - the clothing they choose - the music they listen to or their hopes and dreams and frustrations. I often fell into lecturing and trying to give them unasked for values to live by.
Now they have moved back to California - but not just to California - but to my town.
My fear is that they have changed and will not want me in their lives. That my expectations of a closer and more intimate relationship with them and my daughter won't be realized. And even as I write this, I realize that it's more than possible but likely.
My life is shrinking down. I have less energy, more pain, tire quickly, less flexibility to change and to encounter the changing world that to my kids and grandkids is a delightful exploration and to me a challenge to keep up.
When did this happen to me? I always swore that I would "stay young" in mind, spirit and openness to adventure, new ideas, new challenges and thoughts. I didn't expect to become an old lady and I certainly didn't expect to be a disabled one.
How we delude ourselves that we have choices. That we can pick and choose from the menu of life. One thing from Column A, two from Column B and nothing from Column C.
Thanks a lot. I often say jokingly that I didn't sign up for this old age and I'm not really joking.
I avoid reading AARP magazine and other magazines geared to aging people, because they, too, haven't figured out that we don't choose to be crippled, in pain, out of energy and out of interest in things that "should" interest us. We aren't all going to climb Kilimanjaro at 80. We aren't all going to do the 10K run or the Polar Bear
swim. Few of us are going for that PhD at 90. What's more I resent those who do all those things! Let alone the implication that I'm a slacker because I don't want to go there. Or that if only I'd do their exercise program, take their vitamins, practice their zen, yoga or brain exercises, I, too will be able to do all of the above, and maybe learn the samba in my spare time.
So, I'm going to have to learn a new way of being - which seems to happen every few years. One that means I can't do the things I'd like with my grandchildren - speak the language they speak - or be their peer. Wait a minute...did I say peer? Well, gee - they don't need more peers do they? They need grandparents who love and care for them and support their hopes and dreams and give comfort when they need it.
I'm glad I had this conversation with myself. I forgot there is a place of me. It's just a different one from what I imagined. But I've learned new roles before, I can do it again.
There were good reasons for them going there and good reasons for them staying, but it was a great loss for me as we, my husband and myself, had visited those two grandchildren weekly for 10 years. And then they were far, far away and twice a year visits were the best we could do.
I did what I could to maintain contact - to try to stay up-to-date with their lives but young children are not famous for "chatting" with elderly relatives about the trivia that makes up their lives - the books they read - the clothing they choose - the music they listen to or their hopes and dreams and frustrations. I often fell into lecturing and trying to give them unasked for values to live by.
Now they have moved back to California - but not just to California - but to my town.
My fear is that they have changed and will not want me in their lives. That my expectations of a closer and more intimate relationship with them and my daughter won't be realized. And even as I write this, I realize that it's more than possible but likely.
My life is shrinking down. I have less energy, more pain, tire quickly, less flexibility to change and to encounter the changing world that to my kids and grandkids is a delightful exploration and to me a challenge to keep up.
When did this happen to me? I always swore that I would "stay young" in mind, spirit and openness to adventure, new ideas, new challenges and thoughts. I didn't expect to become an old lady and I certainly didn't expect to be a disabled one.
How we delude ourselves that we have choices. That we can pick and choose from the menu of life. One thing from Column A, two from Column B and nothing from Column C.
Thanks a lot. I often say jokingly that I didn't sign up for this old age and I'm not really joking.
I avoid reading AARP magazine and other magazines geared to aging people, because they, too, haven't figured out that we don't choose to be crippled, in pain, out of energy and out of interest in things that "should" interest us. We aren't all going to climb Kilimanjaro at 80. We aren't all going to do the 10K run or the Polar Bear
swim. Few of us are going for that PhD at 90. What's more I resent those who do all those things! Let alone the implication that I'm a slacker because I don't want to go there. Or that if only I'd do their exercise program, take their vitamins, practice their zen, yoga or brain exercises, I, too will be able to do all of the above, and maybe learn the samba in my spare time.
So, I'm going to have to learn a new way of being - which seems to happen every few years. One that means I can't do the things I'd like with my grandchildren - speak the language they speak - or be their peer. Wait a minute...did I say peer? Well, gee - they don't need more peers do they? They need grandparents who love and care for them and support their hopes and dreams and give comfort when they need it.
I'm glad I had this conversation with myself. I forgot there is a place of me. It's just a different one from what I imagined. But I've learned new roles before, I can do it again.