After my last post I decide to start a new mental exercise. Every week I’ll choose one thing that captures my thoughts. It could be a small detail, an image, an action or any other small thing that people take for granted. That’s the thing; so many things are taken for granted. What could it hurt to train yourself to actually notice and appreciate some otherwise overlooked things?
Rain. The day starts with just a few clouds on the cool early morning sky. It gradually becomes more and more menacing, greyer and greyer and darker and darker. Finally, in the middle of delving into our studies, I’ll pause briefly to listen to the sudden pitter patter that fills the zal as the downpour outside hits the skylights above our heads.
I noticed the rain over Friday. Earlier I had considered brining a jacket of some sort, but decided against it since it was too warm and didn’t look like it would rain all that much. I was wrong. In the library, as I was on my laptop, it began to pour. With Shobbos around the corner, I couldn’t wait around for it to subside.
Walking down the corridor I saw the torrent which I was about to enter. I simply sighed and continued toward the door. The glass electric door opened before me and the wonderful aroma of rain filled my nostrils. Why does rain smell the way it does? Is it no more than the scent of wet concrete? Or is it something about the water itself that gives it that odor? Where does it come from, that smell that always sends us all down memory lane, to times when we were just little kids running around with our friends in the wet playground on a rainy school day? I’ll ask G-d one day.
I look up to my right. The flag of Australia flips and flaps in the wind on top of town hall. Its dark blue defiantly battles the grey and white of the ominous sky. As if waiting in ambush, the heavens open the floodgates as soon as I begin my journey home. Why is the sky so merciless when I have nothing to protect me save for my white button-down shirt?
The rain is too much to tolerate. I join a woman and together we stand under the safety of an awning in anticipation for a tram to save us from this hydro assault. A mother and her child run across the street; the mother wanting nothing but to dodge the rain drops while she pulls her son who happily jumps and splashes in the puddles.
We didn’t have to wait long before we were greeted by the gracious DING DING of one of Melbourne’s fine trams. Mr. Tram slowed to a stop as I walked out onto the street to meet him. His classic style fold-up doors all creaked as they opened for me to take refuge within. He seemed to say “Come on you drenched souls! I’m the friendly tram come to save you all. I’m here now, but I won’t be for long! Come on get in! It’s nice and dry inside me.” We took his courteous suggestion.
Inside was a relief. It was a dry and quick alternative to walking. I took my seat and watched the wet world outside as Mr. Tram dutifully sped along. Water ran down the window turning my view into a soft pleasant blur. The tram stopped to take in two girls who jumped in all giggles and smiles. They must have been out for a while considering how wet they were, but this didn’t seem to bother them in the least bit. They simply talked and giggled as water droplets rolled off their golden locks of hair and dripped down to the floor below.
My stop finally came and I once more had to brave the world outside and rely on whatever pity I cloud might have in whatever heart a cloud might have. This amounted to very little. I stepped off and thanked Mr. Tram. He simply shut his doors and sped off saying, “Yes yes, I hear it all the time, but I cannot stay to chat. There’s plenty more drenched souls that need a savin’” and away went the ever faithful Mr. Tram. There was no point in running like some people were. It wouldn’t make me any less wet. I summoned up my dignity, glared at the clouds, and stubbornly set off home one step at a time.
Seeing my determination and disobedience, the sky decided it must be a challenge. It let loose its arsenal on my poor wet head, but I just kept right along one step at a time. Harder and harder the sky hammered down. It flashed and roared in anger as I defiantly kept right along one step at a time. Unable to stop me it huffed and puffed and spat right into my face. But I simply closed my eyes and kept right along one step at a time.
Near the yeshiva I stopped near a milk bar to outwait the sky. I already made it this far, wont you leave me alone? After all its hard work, and to no avail, the sky was finally tired. It sighed and let up, giving no more than a drizzle. I walked the rest of the way having earned the respect of the sky.
I came into yeshiva as wet as could be. I went to my room and looked out the window at the unhappy clouds. Disheartened they were, such regret, realizing that they made me so wet! Don’t feel so bad grey looming clouds. Despite our battle today one thing never changes;
I have nothing to do. What I have discovered, though this little enterprise of mine, is that I actually enjoy writing. I don’t even care if no one reads it. I have nothing to do so I take out my laptop from its little hiding place (yeshiva rules. You know how it is), pop it open, and stare at Microsoft Word. That little line just goes ‘blink.. blink.. blink.. blink…’ and my mind remains about as blank as the digital paper in front of me. Then I start to wonder. When someone likes to write and they do so, what the heck is the point? What’s filling up this paper w/ my perspective of whatever non-important event that someone may or may not read or care about, going to do for me other than fill up this void in time in which I have nothing to do?
Since I came to Australia and decided to write about the adventures and misfortunes that are to be had here, I found myself looking for things to write about. And like all consistent mental exercises, it started to change the way I think. I no longer just see stuff around me; rather I see the things around me as they could be written on paper.
The way things can be written on paper. Pictures are instant, paper requires a lot of words, words require thought, thoughts require perception, and that perception requires you to see things in more detail and with greater depth. In other words; with appreciation.
Looking for something to write about becomes a passive activity after a while, and in turn so does that appreciation for the details and depth for life around you; A woman in funny clothes. That guy playing the weird instrument by the train station. The clop clop clop of the horse and buggies on Swanson street. The DING DING of the green and white trams. The lady who seems to pop up everywhere and talk to you for half an hour. A spider on the zal ceiling. The divine looking clouds outside the window during shiur. They guy who just walked past me playing music on his cell phone. And even right now as I write; the encompassing sound of a rain that just started to pour.
I discovered a phenomenon in zal. You can say whatever you want, as a loud as you want, and no one will even turn their head. I made this discovery while learning in Gemara about a cow that was;
Poopin’ on fruit!!
Nothing. Not that I was trying to get any attention, I didn’t even realize how loud I had said that term, but I found it funny that no one noticed I had shouted something so ridiculous. So it tied it again but even louder;
A cow
That was
Poopin’ on fruit!!!!
Nada. Amazing. There was no end to the potential here. I was curious now. How far could this go? It’s not a big zal, yet no one is noticing?I gathered three of my mates. Let’s pick a ridiculous term, and take turns saying that term, each one has to say it louder than the last one, and if you chicken out you lose. I won.
I found out this isn’t foolproof. The phenomenon has a flip side. That is, when you don’t want people to hear you, that’s when they do. For about 15 seconds, Alice in Wonderland was brought up. 15 seconds. All I wanted to know was “wait wait wait. I don’t understand, was the caterpillar smoking pipes or smoking hookah?” lo-and-behold, right behind me is R. Cohen, just looking at me in subtle bewilderment. He simply gave a soft shake of his head and went to his office.
I was speaking to my chavrusa. I was speaking about the silliness of bar-side pickup lines. Now it was a completely normal conversation, but of course, right in the middle of speaking, right when I looked at him and said, “You are the most beautiful woman in this room,” that was precisely the moment someone walked by, abruptly stopped, and kept walking.
“There’s going to be a few performances at the Lag B”omer carnival. One of them is the play. We need someone to be in charge and we thought….you’d be the one to do it. You'll be able to have anything you need”
There were two young boys living in Arizona. They had come home from yeshiva in NY to enjoy Pesach break. It was the second day of Yom Tov. The Seder was that night and the two boys were sitting around with nothing much to do. “Let’s go to the old-age home. You know, give out matzos and hagaddas. Just like we did with the Rabbi’s brother over Succos one year.” One of them suggested. “Great idea!” the other responded enthusiastically, “We can get matzah from the rabbi, and our parents have plenty of extra hagaddas.” They gathered everything they needed and set off on the two and a half mile trek to the old-age home.
That day was a classic Arizona scorcher. The dessert sun beat down mercilessly on the two boys as they walked on losing buckets of sweat. They could see the heat rising off the pavement before them distorting the images in the distance. Even the very cacti seemed to wither in this heat. Cicadas buzzed relentlessly from amidst the mesquite trees and an occasional cruel dry wind would blow in their faces. They walked on.
They finally arrived at the old age home. Only two miles but it felt like six. They opened the door and were greeted by the most hospitable cool air. Ahhhhh, to finally find safety from the Arizona sun. They went up to the receptionist, an old lady herself, and told her the reason of their visit. “It’s our Passover holiday and we’re here to give out matzah and hagaddas to all the Jewish people here.” The lady looked at them blankly, “I’m sorry but you can’t do that.” Shocked the boys answered back, “Why not? We’ve done this sort of thing before. It’ll be really quick. We wont cause any trouble. This isn’t our first time here you know.” The lady, pitiless, simply excused, “No I cannot allow you in. You’ll offend the non-Jewish residents. What you need to do is call in before hand and set up an appointment.” “But that’s not what we did last time! They let us right in! And what about when you guys have Christmas and Easter stuff? Doesn’t that offend the Jews? We walked all this way!” “I don’t know what you did last time. This is what you’re supposed to do every time.” She answered coldly.
Beset with the weight of disappointment, the two boys plopped down in the waiting room and treated themselves to cool cups of water. They had no choice but to head back home. They arose and reentered the oven of whence they just came.
It was so hot, and they little else to do, that the boys decided to take a small detour. They decided they would go a little out of their way to a park that had shady trees, grass, and a pond with ducks. Then they would cut back to the road and continue home. The park was a good idea. It was cool, shaded, and they played around and chased the ducks a bit. They reached the end of the park and it was time to cut back over to the intersection they needed to go.
They decided, in order to shorten their trip at least a little bit, to beeline to the intersection through a large field that was in between. In the middle of the field was a man flying a remote-control airplane. He had just landed his craft and appeared to either be packing up to leave or getting another vehicle to command the skies. The two boys avoided him to give him some space when suddenly they heard, “Gut Yom Tov!” They whirled around in surprise. What? “Gut Yom Tov! It’s so odd seeing you two here. Where are you coming from?” Delighted the two boys explained what had happened, “But wait,” They said, “Are you having a Seder with your family tonight? We have plenty of hagaddas and matzah that you can take.” The man smiled with glee, “That would be amazing! Thank you so much!” and the man proceeded to take matzah and hagaddas for his family. The two boys spoke a little about Pesach and being Jewish, told him where the Chabad house was, when services were, and invited him to come. The man said he would check it out. The boys marveled at the planes for a bit and continued on their way.
That Shobbos the boys waited in anticipation for the man-from-the-field, as he had been titled when they told the community what happened, to show up, but he never did. All well. However, the next Shobbos, right before they were to go back to NY, he did show up! The community already knew who he was thanks to the boys and came over to greet him warmly. The boys as well came over to speak to him a bit. The man was taken aback by the warmth and welcome he received in this small community. Soon after, the boys left to finish the year in NY.
When they returned, the man was still there! He had been coming regularly and felt bad he had to drive on Shobbos to get to shul. Lo-and-behold, a few months later him, his wife, and children all move right in, quite a good sized bunch. He put his kids in the local Jewish day school, came to shul on Shobbos, and came to all the events. Instantly they had become part of the warm community in the middle of the Sonora Dessert.
As they learned more, and became more frum, they made an unfortunate discovery; there was an issue with how their parents had converted or something similar to that, the young boys were never sure. Either way, it was discovered that up until this point, they had only thought they were Jewish. They needed to convert. They called the Beis Din and were met with opposition and frustration.
The school year started again. The two young boys parted ways. One decided to complete school in Arizona while the other returned to NY. The young boy who went back to NY would participate when the bochurim told stories of mivtzoim and hashgacha pratis by saying his, but he could never finish it. His story really had no end. Every time he had to leave it off in uncertainty and frustration.
It remained that way for years
The young boy completed his schooling and adventures in NY and decided to continue in a far away land. There too, the bochurim would gather round to tell their tales of mivtzoim and hashgacha pratis, and there too the young boy would tell his, and there too he could not end it, and would leave them off with the inconclusive ‘to be continued’.
One day he spoke to his mother. He asked what she had been doing that day. His father had gone to Virginia to visit his grandfather who was having surgery. His brother had gone back to NY to follow in his older sibling’s footsteps. It was just his mother and the dog back home. “I’m looking for a sheitle for Mrs ____. They’re having their chassana this Lag B”omer.” “Chassana?” “Oh that’s right. You didn’t know. They completed their conversion recently!” He paused, soaking in the news he just received. Then he allowed a smile to form on his face and leaned back with a sense of soft satisfaction. Finally
The conversation sent me into one of my rolling tangents of thought.
I believe everyone is scared their first time skydiving. The whole way up they sit, fidgeting, squirming, hearts pounding, and they keep thinking about how they don’t want to do it, how they wish they were still on the ground, stayed home.
As the moment gets closer their agitation increases. They begin to breath a little quicker, even sweat a little. What the heck am I doing?
Finally they have to get up. They’re lead to the door. Their mind races. Oh G-d oh G-d here it comes, this is it Oh no it’s too soon, five more minutes!
The door opens and the rush is even more terrifying and jolting than they imagined. The whole world bursts into view. They’re gripped and squeezed by the clutches of dread. The wind blasts into their face and eyes. It rushes up their nose making it even harder to breath within the vice of trepidation that has seized them. The noise is deafening. The whole cabin is overwhelmed with the whir of the engines and violent air. The entire world has been turned into turmoil and all they can think of doing is shrinking back into the safety of the cabin. Their chest beats and screams, ‘Turn back! Turn back!’ It’s just too overwhelming.
Doesn’t it make a lot of sense to do just that? To surrender to the false conviction that this really isn’t what they want to do? It’s not hard to just retreat, to say, “Sorry coach. I can’t.” and in turn the instructor will give him an understanding pat on the shoulder and watch in pity as he sits back down, arms folded, huddled over in shame, and watched as everyone else departs. The plane will land. He will get off and slowly walk over to his light-blue Sedan and drive home trying to persuade himself of some artificial satisfaction. He will get home, heat up a plate of left-overs, sit, and think; would he have enjoyed it? Would he have not? Who knows.
But none of that happens.
Instead something crazy does.
Even though he thinks he wants to turn back
Despite the fear
The uncertainty
The regret
Of something he’s never tried before
Just for a second
He turns off his mind
He barely realizes it when it happens, but despite the fear he reminds himself for just a split second of what he’ll feel after the whole ordeal. And with that thought and for that second, he subdues all the emotion and false desire to turn back;
He jumps!
WhEEEEEOOOOO
Pfffffffffffffffffffffff
He turns around and there’s the plane! Leaving him! It already shrinks into the distance as it soars away and he falls downward. The wind rips past him and he looks down at the whole entire world coming up to greet him.
No matter how hard he tries, no power on earth could prevent the massive grin that appears on his face. Haha he loves it! He’s never felt so free! So alive! He can twist and turn with the whole of the heavens as his domain! And the view! Spectacular! All his worries were left on the Earth. Nothing could touch him up here! He falls and falls. So much room. He has never had so much room. No walls. No trees. Only the clouds feebly attempt to hinder his freedom. That and the massive earth threatening to destroy him. He must pull the cord.
Suddenly the experience takes a radical turn. Instantly the rush and excitement is replaced by the calm and beauty of floating down to the ground. He takes a moment to really take in the view, the cool air in his face, the warm pure sun above, and the sounds of all society below him. He can hear dogs barking and construction in the distance. He can see tiny toy cars zooming around, tiny toy houses, and tiny plastic trees all around below. Little toy people go about their business, none of which could ever effect him up here.
His smile evolves into a hearty chuckle, one that continues until he finally touches down in a storm of happy laughter and concludes with a passionate “WHOOHOOO!” He’ll never forget it.
In each scenario, he did what he thought he wanted to do, except in the latter he did what he knew he wanted to do. Because he thought of the experience he might have, the memories he might have, and not about the fear of that initial jump.
How often do people draw back in fear of the pressure of that first jump? Of new things, new experiences, and new challenges? When the door of opportunity opens in life it’s sometimes terrifying, but does that mean we convince ourselves that we really don’t want to take it? Sometimes you have to shut off your emotions and just ask yourself:
We came into his office. It was cold. I knew what this was about. I knew this was the decision. The whole day bochurim had been going in and out of R. Cohen’s office; who shall move up and who shall move down, who shall live and who shall die, who by sword and who by famine… and it was our turn to sit before him and be judged.
R. Cohen has the most intense manner of addressing you. He speaks quietly, slowly, putting emphasis on certain syllables, and with a deliberate and sophisticated language flavored by his English accent (imagine a subdued Jack Sparrow).
“come in. come in….have a seat…..so…..you expRESSED interest last zman in moving UP… to shiur beis…..and I have spOKEN to R. Leches about this….decision and we REviewed your test scores and they are…aBOVE average to say the leassst….. BUT… shiur beis is a much more difficult shiur and we spoke about whether... YOU would be able toHANDLE it….
Pesach is over. For some, it simply came, happened, and went. For others it was a period of relaxation and seclusion and for others still it was full of new experiences and people. Either way, many are feeling the post-holiday blues.
No matter how you view it, the week of Pesach is an island in the yearly cycle. Everything changes; the food changes, the schedule changes, our homes change. Families and friends come together for meals and exchange stories and pleasantries. Not all, but for many it’s a week of recharging, especially after the hectic cleaning before hand, before starting afresh in a dust-free home.
Now we have our chametz back, our dishes back, we peel back the foil that covers our kitchens, the schools start up again, and everything just seems so, uggghhh, regular……the same thing I was doing before Pesach. Woopdeedoo.
Over Shobbos someone said some words that I believe will stick in my mind for a long time. He spoke about something he read regarding fins and scales. The torah permits any fish with fins and scales. The Gemara says that any fish with scales will have fins. So why doesn’t the Torah just permit fish with scales? What’s the need to mention fins?
The reason is because the fins and scales have something to teach us. Scales represent armor. Fins represent an ability to shoot forward. Just having fins is not a kosher characteristic. It means you shoot forward into the world, but also allow it to influence and change you. That’s why the only kosher fish is one that has the scales to protect it from the environment.
However, fins are still mentioned because that quality is still crucial. Having our own fins is the only way to get over the post-holiday blues. We had our period of renewal, to grow our ‘fins’ and now it’s time to utilize that as a slingshot to propel us through the rest of the year. It’s time to really dive into it, to pursue and tackle all the goals and problems that may have arisen. Whether it’s trying to get a job clear across the country, dealing with anti-Semitism at work, or just floating back into a regular schedule in a new zman, Pesach gave us the fins to shoot right through. Use them and go for it.
What do you do!? What do you do!? What do you do!? Now I’m a capable person. I can pretty much handle any situation, but what the heck! I have never wrecked a car before!
Am I the one who’s supposed to take it to the shop? That would seem fair since I messed it up. How do I get it there if I don’t drive? So you get a quote. What if he’s not there? Do you leave it there? And when he comes and takes the details do you leave it there? What if he says he’ll give you a quote tomorrow, you leave it there right? Do you not? When you say you’ll pay, do you ask about the insurance? Is that rude? Does insurance cover it? Do I need to have insurance? Is it fair to ask about the insurance? It makes your premium go up right? So that wouldn’t be fair to them, right? Or is it?
My obligation is to get it fixed and I will, but I think I’m looking like a bumbling idiot right now. I’m doing my best I really am! So I took it to the shop, but I wasn’t supposed to leave it there! But I left it there! So I said I’d get it back tommorw And the guy said something like how he thinks it’d be $600!!!
…tomorrow…
I wake up.
Long night.
Accidentally slept in.
Voicemail.
“I must have the car back no later than ten,
my wife needs it.”
Ten
It’s 10:45
Rrrunnniiing. O dear G-d I just keep mucking this up. I need a driver to get there. Something’s really wrong with my leg. I have to limp. I’m run/limping like a wounded desperate WWII soldier in the middle of battle. It’s like those zombie or virus movies; there’s no one around. No one picks up their phone. What the hell is going on!? It slips my mind to call the fellow and say it’ll be late. Another stupid mistake. I find someone! A yank him with me. I yank someone else on the street, someone I barely know, but it must get done! I must be mad.
We get to the shop. I need the car! They worked on it. Really just needed some buffering. We’ll talk on Monday. Take the car, zoom out! Put down the sunroof of course. Aaaaand finally! I am so embarrassed.
…later…
Ugggggggggh. This car thing kills. I am so stupid. I look so stupid. I get a call. It’s the owner of the car. Ohhhhh. What did I doooooo…
I am told not to worry about it. He is satisfied with what I have already done. I don’t know if you’ve ever been run-over by a truck, but if some one were to suddenly lift a truck off you, you’d feel the same as me. Thank G-d Thank G-d Thank G-d. I was prepared to pay and do whatever I needed. I guess insurance will take care of the rest, and I already got the car buffered so it’s not even really noticeable at all. I believe he did me an enormous favor.
